Trial by combat?
Tyrion Lannister stopped in his tracks, as if seized by an invisible force, frozen within that vast and somber hall. Candlelight flickered all around, casting enormous shadows across the cold stone walls, every shifting glow seeming to echo the questions swirling in his mind.
So the timeline still converges?
He knew everyone else in the hall was just as confused.
"Lady Catelyn Stark, I am the accused. Why would you be the one to demand trial by combat?" Tyrion Lannister asked, glancing at her while his eyes flicked briefly toward the Blackfish.
Brynden's face looked grim. It was clear he wished to stop his niece, but Lady Stark did not look at her uncle.
"The gods above will grant me justice. I will let them decide the verdict, not the hands of men. I demand trial by combat."
Her voice was firm and resolute. Tyrion Lannister knew well enough—this woman was as stubborn as a mule. Once she set her mind, even a team of oxen couldn't pull her back.
After all, she was someone who could secretly release Jaime.
"My lady," Tyrion Lannister replied, "since you are demanding trial by combat… will you be donning armor yourself? I know a few female knights, but you don't strike me as one who wields a sword."
"Do I have the right?" Catelyn Stark asked her sister.
Confusion filled Lysa Arryn's watery blue eyes. Clearly, her sister's move had caught her by surprise."Of course you do."
"In that case, I choose a champion," Catelyn Stark said, finally looking toward her uncle.
The Blackfish's blue eyes flashed with interest, but before he could speak, Lysa Arryn cut in.
"Ser Brynden Tully is Knight of the Bloody Gate. He is a knight of the Vale, appointed by my late husband."
Indeed, after Robert's Rebellion, he had accompanied Lysa Tully and her husband Jon Arryn to the Vale, where Jon had named him Knight of the Bloody Gate. Tyrion Lannister knew this well.
"But he is also a Tully—our kin," Catelyn Stark said. "Family, duty, honor."
"But I am no longer a trout," Lysa Arryn said, pointing to the crescent falcon embroidered on her breast. "And neither are you."
"Ser Brynden, I forbid you to serve as Lady Stark's champion," she ordered.
The Blackfish nodded and dropped to one knee.
Tyrion Lannister felt a flicker of secret delight. Without a champion, they would have no choice but to let him go.
"My lady, I will be your champion."
The voice startled Tyrion Lannister. He turned toward the sound.
Ser Rodrik Cassel—the short, stout master-at-arms of Winterfell.
Rodrik tugged at his white beard. "My lady, I will fight for you. I will serve as your champion."
"Old man, your hair and beard are white!" Tyrion Lannister said. "You're wounded—you were attacked by the mountain clans. How much is House Stark paying you to risk your life? I'll double it."
Rodrik did not even look at him. His eyes remained fixed on Catelyn Stark and Lysa Arryn.
Both ladies nodded, and Lysa turned toward Tyrion Lannister.
"Then Ser Rodrik shall serve as Lady Catelyn Stark's champion."
"Hold on. If she gets a champion, I should be allowed one too. As far as I know, my brother Jaime would be more than happy to fight for me," Tyrion Lannister said.
"Your famed Kingslayer is hundreds of leagues away," Catelyn Stark snapped.
"Send a raven. I'm happy to wait."
"You will fight Ser Rodrik tomorrow morning," Catelyn Stark said. "You are a healthy man. Why would you need a champion?"
"I spent a night freezing in that cell. If I weren't lucky, I might be dead already," Tyrion Lannister replied.
In truth, he thought, the old Tyrion already is.
"Ser Rodrik is wounded as well," Catelyn Stark said, glancing at her sister. "I will not allow him to name a champion either."
Whispers spread among the knights. Tyrion Lannister noticed the faint look of disdain on Ser Vardis's face.
"Tyrion Lannister, you will fight personally," Lysa Arryn concluded, her tone leaving no room for argument.
"No problem, my lady. I accept your decision," Tyrion Lannister said, eyes flickering with calculation. "But I have a suggestion—if Lady Stark is willing to hear it."
"Succubus, what trick are you plotting now?" Catelyn Stark asked.
"I don't think it would be appropriate for us to fight with real blades," Tyrion Lannister said, gesturing toward Rodrik Cassel. "After all, I'm as skilled with a sword as my brother. Defeating a wounded old man would bring no honor."
"What do you propose?" Catelyn Stark asked.
"I suggest we fight unarmed," Tyrion Lannister said, raising his fists. "Boxing. You know—boxing."
Catelyn couldn't tell what he was really planning and opened her mouth to refuse, but Tyrion Lannister quickly continued.
"Hand-to-hand combat is safer. And if I lose, I will still face judgment." His mismatched green and violet eyes locked onto hers.
"And I doubt you would want to risk a Northerner's life unnecessarily."
Catelyn hesitated. The succubus had a point—but she couldn't shake the feeling it was a trap. She didn't want to agree, yet she was trapped by her own position.
His voice seemed to whisper in her ear, each word crafted with careful precision—seductive, logical, impossible to ignore. His intelligence and cunning inspired both admiration and unease, like a temptation from the abyss drawing one step by step into the unknown.
"Very well. I accept," Lady Catelyn said at last. "But don't try any tricks."
"What tricks could I possibly play? A Lannister always pays his debts," Tyrion Lannister said."Lady Arryn, I request to return to that room to rest until the trial begins."
He meant the room filled with plaster statues.
Lysa Arryn nodded and ordered Ser Vardis to escort him back.
"My lady, you needn't worry," Rodrik Cassel murmured quietly to Catelyn as they watched Tyrion Lannister depart. "Look at his arms—they're as thin as reeds."
"Old as I am, I've lost none of my strength," Rodrik added, trying to reassure her. "I'll show him the old wolf still has teeth."
Catelyn nodded, the crescent falcon banners of House Arryn hanging overhead.