This was a fight over family bullying.
It was also a trial for a dwarf.
"Oh, poor child."
Lady Olenna pressed a hand to her forehead and watched Tyrion stand there, defiant and fierce. She was a hundred percent certain this was Tywin's blood. Even a dwarf could carry the bearing of a lion when the moment demanded it.
"Lord Hand seems a little too eager," Prince Doran said, frowning. He sensed something was off.
No one questioned the Lannister bloodline out loud. They all assumed it was just Tywin's temper talking. Tyrion might be short, but in every other way he was pure Lannister.
"Arianne. Come here."
Prince Doran leaned sideways and waved his daughter over. He whispered something quick in her ear. Arianne nodded once and slipped into the crowd.
The trial had to continue no matter what Tyrion did.
Tywin's face was dark with fury. He didn't bother with dignity. "Do you plead guilty?"
"If being born a dwarf is a crime, then I'm guilty as charged."
Tyrion's neck corded with veins. He put every ounce of strength into the words.
"Don't waste the court's time. We're trying you for murdering the whore."
"I didn't kill her. I paid to fuck her."
"Shameless little bastard."
Tywin spat the words like poison. He was truly losing control.
"Faced with your accusation, I am innocent."
Tyrion knew they would never give him a real investigation. He turned, scanning the hall, then locked eyes with the cold, familiar figure on the high seat. He spoke slowly, every word deliberate. "If I'm guilty, let the Seven judge me."
"I demand trial by combat!"
Gasps tore through the hall. Every noble stared at the dwarf in stunned silence.
Only cases born of deep, dangerous grudges ever reached this point. Their own King Daeron had won two trial-by-combats and made a name for himself across the realm. But Tyrion? He was just a dwarf.
Tywin blinked, genuinely surprised. "You want trial by combat?"
"That's right."
Tyrion's gaze was sharp. This was the fastest, cleanest way out he could see.
"You're a dwarf."
Tywin didn't bother hiding his contempt.
Tyrion kept his voice steady. "According to the oldest Andal custom, the accused has the right to demand trial by combat and the right to name a champion to fight in his place."
"Fine. Have it your way."
Tywin looked down at the Hound. "Ser Sandor Clegane. You will fight for me. Are you willing?"
Sandor pulled off the dog-shaped helm. His face looked like he'd bitten into something rotten. "Yes, my lord. I'll fight for you."
A man didn't say no to the Hand of the King at a moment like this.
Tywin turned back to his son. "Tyrion, I've chosen my champion. Who's yours?"
"I choose my brother—"
The moment Tywin named the Hound, Tyrion's face lit up. He almost said Jaime's name without thinking. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew the truth: aside from the young king and Prince Rhaegar, only Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy could claim to be better than Jaime Lannister. Take those four out and Jaime was the best fighter alive. He would carve through the Hound without breaking a sweat. That was why Tyrion had dared to ask for trial by combat in the first place.
"Denied."
Tywin cut him off cold. "The Kingsguard protect the king and those he assigns them to protect. They are not hired swords for you to command."
"Why not?"
Tyrion felt the ground shift under him. If Jaime was top-tier, the Hound was right behind him. Tyrion couldn't name anyone who could beat Sandor Clegane on short notice, let alone someone willing to risk it for him.
Tywin gave him nothing. "Denied means denied. Choose someone else."
Tyrion's eyes flicked to Jaime standing below the Iron Throne. He looked at his brother with raw, desperate hope.
Jaime wanted to step forward. He actually moved—then stopped when Tywin's stare pinned him in place. All he could offer Tyrion was a helpless, apologetic look.
Before the trial, Tywin had pulled Jaime aside. Confess and you go to the Wall. Defy me and your brother dies.
"Fuck."
Tyrion's face went slack for a second. Then he tried the only delay he had left.
"Tradition gives me a day to find a champion."
"No. Right here. Right now."
Tywin wasn't giving an inch. He was terrified his second son would pull another trick.
"That's not how it works."
"My word is how it works."
Tywin stood above them all, his shadow stretching halfway across the hall.
Tyrion's mouth worked, but he swallowed the word "unfair." Instead he turned to the watching nobles, searching for any face that might help.
"My lords. My ladies. Is there anyone willing to fight for me—or send a knight in your place?"
He waited, full of fragile hope.
No one answered.
Some looked away. Some stared at their boots. A few simply watched with cold, empty eyes. No one wanted to cross the Hound. No one wanted to cross Tywin Lannister.
"I'm being framed," Tyrion said, voice rising. "I'm the Minister of Justice the king himself appointed, and now I'm standing here accused. Is there really no one willing to fight for me? No one who will help me prove my innocence?"
Still nothing.
Tywin watched him with icy satisfaction. He knew no one would lift a finger.
"Who will help me?"
Tyrion paced, turning in a slow circle, voice cracking with desperation. "Is there not one true knight in this hall willing to fight for an innocent man?"
A voice finally spoke up.
"That would be—"
Tyrion spun toward it like a drowning man reaching for driftwood.
Bronn stepped out of the crowd, lazy as ever. "Just so we're clear, my job is keeping you breathing. Now that you're on trial, the extra pay we talked about better still be on the table."
He made no move to volunteer.
Laughter rippled through the hall—sharp, mocking, delighted by the sellsword's bluntness and Tyrion's sudden, ridiculous hope.
Bronn shrugged, rubbed his nose, and melted back into the crowd. He wasn't stupid enough to pick a fight with the Hand of the King.
Tyrion stood frozen. For the first time, real despair settled over him.
"Tyrion," Tywin said, voice like winter. "One minute. If you don't name a champion, you lose."
Tyrion turned slowly, looking at every face in the hall. He had nothing left to say.
The seconds ticked away.
Tywin's eyes gleamed. He opened his mouth to declare the verdict.
The great doors at the back of the hall slammed open.
Every head turned.
Two Kingsguard strode in first and took positions on either side like carved stone. Ser Jon Darry's voice rang out, clear and strong.
"Daeron of House Targaryen, Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and the Stepstones, Protector of the Realm—has arrived."
Daeron walked in wearing black steel armor and a red cloak, silver-gold hair loose, purple eyes calm. He carried his helm under one arm like he'd just stepped off the training yard.
Tywin's stomach dropped.
Tyrion's face lit up like someone had struck a match behind his eyes.
Daeron tossed his helm to Tyrion without breaking stride. "I'll fight for him."
The hall went dead silent for half a second—then exploded into shocked murmurs.
Since taking the throne, the young king had almost never fought in public. Now he was offering to champion a dwarf in trial by combat.
"Are you fucking joking?" Sandor muttered, staring at the armored king like he'd been asked to fight a dragon.
Tywin moved fast, stepping close to Daeron, voice low and furious. "Have you lost your mind?"
Daeron met his eyes without flinching. "I told you once. Tyrion is my minister. He has my protection."
He turned to the hall, voice carrying easily. "Tyrion's honor is mine to defend. Let's end this farce."
Tyrion's eyes burned. He clenched his fists so hard his nails cut into his palms. For a second he thought he might actually cry in front of everyone.
"Step back," Daeron said quietly.
Tyrion obeyed without argument.
Daeron drew Dark Sister. The Valyrian steel caught the light like black ice.
He looked at Sandor Clegane. "Let's get this over with, Sandor. I won't kill you."
The Hound's scarred face twisted. He glanced at Tywin, silently begging for another order—any order that didn't involve fighting the Dragon King in open court.
Tywin said nothing.
Daeron rolled his shoulders once, calm and ready.
The hall held its breath.