The next morning, Tyrion's eyes snapped open. Through the small window, daylight was already streaming in.
He had stacked several sacks of plaster powder into a makeshift nest and curled up in it through the night. Fear had kept him awake until late, and now every part of his body ached.
The candle from last night had burned down to nothing, leaving a hardened cap of wax on the head of a plaster statue like some absurd hat.
Tyrion pushed himself up, rubbed his eyes, and went to the basin of water. He dipped a hand in—so cold it made his teeth chatter.
Drawing a deep breath, he plunged his face into the basin, scrubbing away the grime. With wet hands, he smoothed his hair and wiped the dirt from his skin.
The sound of splashing water filled the room.
"Lust Demon!" a voice called from outside.
Tyrion froze, listening.
"Lust Demon, are you awake? It's time!" It was Ser Vardis.
"I'm awake!" Tyrion shouted back. "Ser Vardis, grant me a moment to wash. Show me the courtesy due a nobleman."
"Very well." Ser Vardis stayed outside, not opening the door.
Good, Tyrion thought with relief. A moment ago, he had cursed himself for waking late, but what he needed to do could not be seen by anyone.
He dried his face with the hem of his shirt, then tore off one sleeve.
Ripping it into two strips, he carried them over to the plaster sack "nest."
He dragged the cloth strips through the plaster powder on the floor, then wrapped them tightly around his hands—round after round, layer after layer.
"Are you ready yet, Lust Demon?" Ser Vardis called impatiently.
"Almost!" Tyrion wound the last strip around his knuckles, then puffed out his cheeks and blew away the loose white dust.
The door creaked open. Ser Vardis stepped in, just as Tyrion finished his preparations.
"Ser, I had thought you would grant me a little more privacy," Tyrion said.
"I was commanded to see you kept safe," Vardis replied. "And the trial is about to begin."
Tyrion walked past him toward the hall. "Thank you for your diligence. I trust my conduct hasn't disappointed you."
"Not just me. Everyone present today should understand why they call you the Lust Demon," Ser Vardis said, following close behind.
The great hall of House Arryn was blazing with daylight. Cold wind roared through the windows, making the crescent falcon banners whip and snap louder than they had the night before. Tyrion wondered if his shivering was from the cold—or simply from having just woken.
The fifty torches had been put out. On the high Weirwood throne sat that wretched boy, Robert Arryn, glaring down at him.
"The villain comes!" cried Robert, Lord of the Eyrie.
Lady Lysa sat beside him on a smaller throne, draped in blue silk, her face powdered and perfumed for her suitors. Beside her stood Catelyn Stark.
"We meet again."
Tyrion bowed deeply, using the chance to study those assembled. This time, Lady Lysa had gathered her knights and retainers to witness the trial.
He spotted the weathered face of Brynden Blackfish and the genial Lord Nestor Royce. Beside Nestor stood a younger man with sharp black mustaches—surely his heir, Ser Albar. These men he knew.
Most of the Vale's great houses had sent representatives. Tyrion saw Ser Lyn Corbray, lean as a blade; Lord Hunter, crippled by gout; and Lady Waynwood, the widow, flanked by her brood of sons.
Other banners he didn't recognize: a broken lance, a green viper, a burning tower, a winged chalice on pink. Petty lords, unknown to him.
The minstrel was there too—of course he was—and so was Bronn, standing at the back, his dark eyes scanning over the crowd.
"And where is my opponent?" Tyrion asked, meaning Ser Rodrik Cassel.
"I am here," came a voice, old yet commanding. Ser Rodrik shouldered his way forward, stripped of his heavy mail, dressed in linen, his hands bound in cloth, his gray hair pulled back in a ponytail.
An experienced man, not some clumsy brute with a sword. But Tyrion was certain those wraps on his hands held no tricks like his own.
"Would someone be so kind as to tie my hair back?" Tyrion called.
Rodrik had given him the idea—he had no intention of letting hair blind him in the middle of a fight.
Bronn stepped from the crowd, moved behind him, and tied his hair with a hemp cord.
A murmur ran through the onlookers. Tyrion knew it was his freshly scrubbed face that caused the stir.
The jealous stares of Ser Albar, Ser Lyn Corbray, and others felt sharp as blades.
Among the women—Lady Waynwood and the rest—some blushed and looked away, while others stared at him like hawks sighting prey.
"Mother, he's so handsome!" cried young Robert Arryn from the throne.
Lysa hushed her son. "Patience, sweetling. We'll see him fly soon."
"I don't want him to fly!" the boy shrieked.
"Children don't lie," Tyrion said with a smile. "Spare me, Lady Lysa. Call off this trial now, and I'll see ten golden eagles forged and sent from Casterly Rock."
He'd almost said ten golden cocks in Littlefinger's likeness, but wisely held his tongue.
"Begin," Catelyn Stark pressed, her voice tight with urgency. She feared delay, for already whispers were spreading through the hall.
She knew too well—handsome men drew devotion, even if they were murderers. And this one was heir to Casterly Rock.
"Make them fly!" little Robert cried. Clearly, the Lust Demon's looks meant little to him—he preferred the spectacle of men soaring from the Moon Door.
Lysa nodded. The crowd drew back, leaving Tyrion and Rodrik alone in the center. Both knelt, facing one another.
The septon overseeing the trial stepped forward. From a pouch at his waist he drew a many-faceted crystal, lifting it high. Light scattered in rainbow hues across Tyrion's face.
In a high, solemn, almost chanting voice, the septon invoked the gods to bear witness—to see the truth within this man's soul. If innocent, let him go free; if guilty, let him die. His words echoed through the hall.
"Let them fight!" young Robert shouted.
"For the honor of House Stark and Winterfell," Ser Rodrik said, rising, his words meant for Lady Stark.
"For my face," Tyrion added. "Do try not to hit my face."
"They await your command," Lady Lysa told her son.
"Fight!" the boy shrieked, clutching the arms of his chair, trembling with excitement.