Chapter 60 — The Judgment of the Gods
The method Jaime had proposed was the very same one once offered to Eddard Stark—a path that appeared to spare one's life, yet led only to death in another form.
Tyrion had no intention of following Ned Stark's road.
Cersei's earlier declaration had effectively sealed off that escape as well. Tywin had just lost one uncontrollable grandson—and now faced a daughter even more willful than before. What he felt at that moment, no one could say.
Meeting Cersei's venomous glare, seeing Jaime's helpless resignation, and finally catching the look in his father's eyes—the look one reserved for the already dead—Tyrion understood.
There would be no mercy today.
"Do you confess to your crime?" Tywin asked at last.
Tyrion swept his gaze across the tribunal: the judges seated upon the dais, Cersei and the gathered nobles, and finally the upper gallery, where the new king, Tommen, sat quietly observing.
Tommen—who as a child had begged Tyrion for stories of the Seven Kingdoms, who had once laughed so freely at his jokes.
Now, when Tommen met his eyes, he turned away at once, as though desperate to avoid him.
From below, voices rose in a chorus:
"Kill the kingslayer!"
"Take his head!"
Looking at the nobles he had once saved—now clamoring for his death—every grievance Tyrion had buried since childhood erupted at once. His hatred for his father and sister, his fury at the ingratitude of those he had protected, all burst free.
"I am guilty," Tyrion roared.
"Guilty of being born a Lannister!
Guilty of being a dwarf!
Guilty of saving you ungrateful wretches!"
"I did not murder Joffrey—though I wish I had. I wish I had killed that twisted little monster! And more than that—I wish I could kill all of you!"
"For that, I would gladly burn in the Seven Hells forever!"
The hall erupted.
"Kill him!"
"Kill him!"
Amid the frenzy of these sanctimonious nobles, Tyrion laughed coldly. Fixing his eyes on Tywin, he declared:
"I demand a trial by combat."
The great hall fell instantly silent.
Trial by combat was an ancient Westerosi custom. When the accused could not prove innocence through words, they could appeal to the judgment of the gods themselves.
Both sides could fight personally—or appoint champions in their stead.
Though a presiding judge could deny such a request, almost none ever did.
For trial by combat was seen as the will of the gods.
To refuse it would cast doubt upon the verdict itself, and the people would never accept it as just.
Tywin had not expected this.
He glanced at the watching nobles, weighing their gazes, then nodded slowly.
"As presiding judge, I grant your request."
Cersei leapt to her feet at first, ready to object—but then thought better of it. She sank back into her seat, a curious, almost amused smile curling her lips.
Varys felt a chill.
He had intended to spirit Tyrion away after the verdict, before the executioner's blade fell.
But now…
Tyrion had placed his fate directly into the hands of the gods.
Jaime swept his gaze across the hall, his brow tightening with unease.
Some of the nobles lowered their eyes in contemplation; others, sensing that it had nothing to do with them, waited eagerly to enjoy the spectacle.
When Varys noticed Prince Oberyn wearing a thoughtful expression, his heart skipped.
A realization struck him.
He turned to glance at Cersei again. Could it be… that the mysterious man's words about Oberyn were about to come true here?
If so, that mysterious figure was not only extraordinarily well-informed—but disturbingly prophetic as well. Otherwise, how could he have known Tyrion would demand a trial by combat? And how could he have foreseen that Oberyn, who loathed House Lannister to the bone, might step forward as Tyrion's champion?
Varys had long ordered his little birds in King's Landing to keep close watch on Oberyn. If the prince showed the slightest sign of seeking out Gregor Clegane, he was to be informed immediately.
Yet what he had seen so far was… mundane.
Oberyn spent nearly every day wandering brothels with his paramour. He had met Tyrion once when Tyrion served as Hand of the King and welcomed him to court. Tywin had summoned him on at least one occasion as well.
Beyond that, there had been no hint—none at all—that Oberyn was preparing to confront the Mountain.
As a result, Varys had temporarily set aside the warning left by Drogon.
Only now did he realize the truth.
Their meeting was never meant to happen before the trial—but during it.
I must pass this message to Prince Oberyn as soon as possible, Varys decided.
Seeing Oberyn rise from his seat among the judges, Varys quietly stood as well and slipped away.
---
The Black Cells
When Jaime entered the dungeon with a grim expression, Tyrion's heart sank at once.
"Bronn won't fight for me?" Tyrion asked urgently.
Bronn had once fought as his champion in the Vale, defeating a knight of House Arryn and saving Tyrion from Catelyn Stark's grasp. Tyrion's decision to demand trial by combat this time rested largely on that memory.
Bronn was a sellsword—one who valued gold above all else—but his skill was unquestionable. Tyrion had believed he would save him again.
"Cersei promised Bronn a noble bride," Jaime said quietly. "She'll inherit a fine castle. He won't fight for you."
Tyrion's face collapsed.
With a knighthood, a wife, and a castle, Bronn had no reason to risk his life for Tyrion anymore.
"If Bronn won't come, then I'll fight myself," Tyrion said with a bitter laugh. "Cersei and Father would love nothing more than to see the Mountain tear a dwarf apart with his bare hands."
"I'll find a way to get you out," Jaime said, unwilling to give up.
"How?" Tyrion snapped. "Cut through heavily guarded soldiers and flee to the docks? Cersei must already have men watching you. The moment you make a move, she'll have you arrested too."
Tyrion had no faith left.
"I can't just watch you die," Jaime said, his eyes reddening.
"And whose fault is it," Tyrion replied softly, "that I was born a dwarf in House Lannister?"
Jaime said nothing more.
"Take care of yourself," he finally said.
Tyrion extended his left hand. Jaime grasped it firmly—then placed his golden right hand over it as well, squeezing once before turning and leaving the cell.
After Jaime left, Tyrion collapsed onto the straw, staring blankly at the narrow window high above.
He had never imagined his life would end like this.
He remembered the days of glory when he served as Hand of the King. He remembered standing atop the walls of King's Landing, rousing the soldiers as they shouted "Halfman! Halfman!" He remembered nearly being cleaved in two, certain of his own death.
All of it was gone.
Bronn had abandoned him for gold. Sansa was gone—he wondered whether she spared a thought for the husband who had become her scapegoat.
And Shae… had she made it safely back to Pentos? After Varys's testimony at the trial, Tyrion held little hope.
In the entire world, only Jaime still cared for him.
And now—even Tyrion himself had given up.
Night had fully fallen outside the dungeon. Only scattered noble houses glimmered with faint candlelight. In the filth-filled alleys, a tall, thin figure walked forward, holding a torch aloft.
"Prince Oberyn," a voice suddenly rang out, "I've been waiting for you."
As Oberyn rounded the corner, a broad figure stepped into the torchlight. Raising the flame higher, Oberyn saw a gleaming bald head reflecting the firelight.