Chapter 59 – The Trial
"Your Grace," Barristan said softly, signaling with his eyes.
Daenerys understood at once. The Great Masters had already been punished—Barristan was urging her to show mercy.
After a moment's thought, she said, "You may take his body and give him a proper burial. You are dismissed."
"Yes—thank you, Your Grace."
Relief flashed across Hizdahr zo Loraq's face. He rose quickly, bowed deeply, and withdrew from the council chamber.
Perched on Daenerys's shoulder as she returned to her chambers, Drogon silently counted the days.
It was about time for Tyrion's trial.
Without Shae's betrayal—without that final, furious heartbreak—would Tyrion still be driven to stake his life on trial by combat?
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King's Landing
Tyrion Lannister was dragged from the dungeons in chains.
The great hall was already packed with the nobles of King's Landing. At the center sat his father, Tywin Lannister, presiding from the Iron Throne itself. To either side stood the associate judges: Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and father of Margaery, and Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne.
Tywin declared the trial open.
The first witness was Ser Meryn, newly appointed to the Kingsguard—long known as one of King Joffrey's most loyal guards.
"During my service to King Joffrey," Meryn testified, his face twisted with grief and outrage, "I witnessed Tyrion Lannister strike His Grace on more than one occasion. Once while King Robert was traveling to Winterfell, and once here in King's Landing."
"Because Tyrion was his uncle, the king chose not to punish him. And yet, in the end, Tyrion murdered His Grace."
From atop the Iron Throne, Tywin asked coldly,
"Do you have any defense against this testimony?"
Tyrion glanced briefly at Cersei—who turned her face away—then smiled thinly.
"I acted out of a loving elder's concern," he said. "My dear sister failed to raise her son properly, so I took it upon myself to educate him."
He paused, eyes flicking back to Tywin.
"I imagine my beloved father, Lord Tywin, has done the same on occasion. Otherwise, King Joffrey would not have grown into such a universally beloved ruler."
Knowing his son's sharp tongue all too well, Tywin did not bother responding.
Next came Cersei herself.
She declared that Tyrion had always hated Joffrey, that the beatings were never acts of guidance or concern—only of resentment and malice.
Tyrion offered no reply.
Finally, Varys took the stand.
"Tyrion Lannister showed great sympathy toward Lord Eddard Stark," the eunuch said smoothly, "and treated Lady Sansa with notable kindness."
As always, Varys did not mind adding yet another log to the fire.
Tyrion glared furiously at Varys, unable to understand why even he would say something so damaging.
Varys merely raised an eyebrow at him—saying nothing.
"Varys, have you forgotten that I was the one who held King's Landing and saved it from Stannis's sack?" Tyrion protested bitterly.
"Of course I remember," Varys replied calmly. "But that does not prevent me from telling the truth."
Tyrion loathed those words—the truth.
Every witness so far had spoken facts, and every fact cut against him.
Joffrey had broken his promise and executed Ned Stark; Tyrion had shown sympathy.
In King's Landing, he had repeatedly defied Joffrey over Sansa.
In the end, he had even married her.
Tyrion knew very well that these testimonies were delivered at the urging of his sister Cersei and his father Tywin. They meant to kill him—plain and simple.
As he pondered this, Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled forward to the witness stand, trembling. The heavy chain of his office weighed so much on his neck that he seemed barely able to lift his head.
If Drogon had been there to see it, he would have scoffed—Pycelle showed no such frailty in bed.
With shaking hands, Pycelle drew a parchment from his sleeve and stammered,
"After examination, I determined that King Joffrey died from poisoning. The poison was a rare compound known as the Strangler."
At the mention of the Strangler, Prince Oberyn Martell leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing.
"It seems Prince Oberyn recognizes this poison?" Cersei asked, lifting her gaze sharply.
All eyes turned to Oberyn.
"What are you implying?" Oberyn said lazily, reclining back in his chair. "Yes, I am skilled with poisons. Are you suggesting that I killed Joffrey?"
"I would never suspect you," Cersei replied lightly. "I merely wished to hear your thoughts on the poison."
"I am not fully familiar with its exact composition," Oberyn said coolly. "Perhaps we should continue listening to the Grand Maester."
The hall's attention returned to Pycelle.
"The Strangler is brewed from several extremely toxic substances. Upon inspection of the apothecary stores, I discovered that a number of rare herbs and liquids had gone missing."
He paused, then continued,
"Ser Meryn later found the body of King Joffrey's fool, Ser Dontos, in a secluded area near the docks. On his body, this was discovered."
Pycelle produced a pale-blue crystal necklace.
"This necklace once belonged to Sansa Stark, wife of Tyrion Lannister. After King Joffrey's death, witnesses reported that Dontos—disguised as a servant—escorted Sansa out of the hall."
"I found traces of the Strangler within the shattered fragments of this necklace."
Gasps erupted throughout the hall.
The nobles whispered among themselves, speaking of Sansa Stark—the girl Joffrey had nearly stripped naked before them all in this very chamber. None had expected that she might be the one who poisoned the king.
Tyrion stared blankly at the pale-blue necklace in Pycelle's hands.
He remembered seeing it before—remembered asking Sansa who had given it to her.
She had answered honestly: Dontos, in gratitude for saving his life, had gifted her a treasured heirloom from his family and urged her to wear it always.
Tyrion had never imagined that poison had been hidden within it.
He still did not believe Sansa was the true mastermind. At most, she had been used—perhaps knowingly, perhaps not.
But now, as her husband, Tyrion was firmly branded as a co-conspirator.
"You believed that because you are a Lannister, your father would never kill you," Cersei said coldly. "But my son cannot die in vain. He was King of the Seven Kingdoms. You did not merely murder your nephew—you murdered the ruler of the realm. That crime demands death. No one can absolve you."
She glanced at Tywin, then fixed Tyrion with a look of pure hatred.
Tywin studied his daughter in silence, his expression unreadable.
Jaime, however, was growing desperate.
Before the trial, unable to persuade Cersei to abandon the death charge, he had turned to their father.
Tywin had relented—but only on one condition.
Jaime would renounce his white cloak, inherit Casterly Rock, and marry a noblewoman to secure the Lannister line.
In exchange, Tywin promised that once Tyrion confessed to regicide and begged for mercy, he would commute the sentence to exile—sending Tyrion to the Wall to serve as a man of the Night's Watch.
Only then would he be allowed to live.
But when Jaime relayed this bargain, Tyrion had remained unconvinced.
He did not trust his father to keep his word—especially with Cersei standing beside him, burning with hatred.
She hated him for being born and killing their mother in childbirth.
She hated him for tormenting her as a child, for drugging her wine, for defying her.
She hated him for striking her son.
And now—she hated him for killing him.