TYRION
He was bound, but not gagged — though from the way Lady Stark kept her distance, she clearly wished for the latter.
The mountain road curled through sheer cliffs and treacherous switchbacks, flanked by jagged outcroppings that looked more like teeth than stone. The mules picked their way carefully along the narrow path, each step a negotiation with gravity. They had been riding for hours now, and the Vale loomed ever closer, though not yet in sight.
The escort was modest: Ser Rodrik Cassel, grumbling with every jolt in the saddle, and four knights sworn to House Tully—volunteers, Catelyn had called them, though they watched Tyrion with the quiet intensity of men hoping for a reason to draw steel.
He shifted in his saddle, wrists raw from the leather bindings.
"Lady Stark," he said, raising his voice just enough to carry over the wind, "this is a long way to go for your sister's version of justice."
Catelyn didn't answer at first. Her gaze remained fixed on the winding trail ahead.
"Oh, forgive me," Tyrion continued. "King's justice, you claimed, and yet here we are, bouncing along a goat's path to the Eyrie. Why not simply hand me over to the mountain clans and let them judge me in the old way? You're of the North now, are you not? The First Men's customs and all that."
Catelyn finally looked at him—just a glance, sharp enough to draw blood.
"They'll have me raped before they'll even see you," she said.
"Ah, so it's your safety you're concerned for," Tyrion replied, voice light. "Hence this smooth and civilized road. How very practical."
"You Lannisters are all the same," she said. "Arrogant. Cruel. Deceitful."
Tyrion raised a brow. "And yet here I am, in chains. Not even told the nature of my crimes. One might almost believe you had no case at all."
"You'll admit to your crimes in front of the lords of the Vale. And to my sister."
"Give me a hint—so I can compose something appropriately dramatic for my speech. It's a long road, after all."
She didn't answer. The sound of hooves and wind returned, filling the silence.
She wouldn't answer him. Not with words, anyway. Just that stiff turn of her head, her jaw locked like a gate against reason. He was in chains, yes — but his words still had teeth. And she didn't like being bitten.
Lannister wit, she'd call it. As if cleverness were a crime when wielded by the wrong house. Or perhaps it was simply easier to ignore sense when it came from someone she'd already condemned.
Tyrion sighed and leaned back in his saddle as far as the ropes would allow. The road snaked ahead through a pass lined with gray pine and sheer drop. One misstep from a mule and it was all screaming wind and shattered bones. He imagined what his father would say: You put yourself in the company of fools, Tyrion. Try not to die like one.
Behind him, one of the Tully knights adjusted his sword belt. Ser Rodrik was muttering to his horse again, something about his hip and the weather.
Tyrion smirked to himself. "A charming little expedition," he said aloud. "Next time, I'll bring wine."
No one laughed.
Of course not.
They finally reached the Eyrie.
The journey had been long, narrow, and miserable, but nothing prepared him for the sheer absurdity of being shoved before a throne carved into the side of a mountain.
He stood, chained and travel-worn, in front of Lady Lysa Arryn, who barely glanced at him before pulling her sister into an embrace. The sisters exchanged quiet words, nothing of substance that he could hear, and then Lysa took her high seat with a regal flutter of skirts.
And then came the boy.
Tyrion blinked.
The child was pale, small for his age — six, maybe seven — and still nursing.
Gods help us, Tyrion thought, he's still at the breast.
He flicked a glance at Catelyn, who — for the first time — looked uneasy. Her jaw tightened, and her eyes didn't meet his. Even she, it seemed, hadn't expected this display.
"You will be tried once the lords arrive, within a sennight!" Lysa declared, as if the sentence had already been written in her mind.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
"My lady, your sister has not told me what crimes I'm to be tried for. Might you be more gracious than her and enlighten me?"
Lysa's face twisted, as if the very question offended her.
"You Lannisters killed my husband — and you! You sent assassins to murder my sister's boy! You armed the killer with your own dagger, a Valyrian blade! Marked your crime with your pride!"
He turned his head just slightly — not toward her, but toward Catelyn — and caught it: a flicker. A shift. A hesitation.
Ah, he thought. There it is.
"What dagger?" Tyrion asked, lightly. "Do remind me — it's been such a long ride."
"That catspaw dagger!" Lysa snapped. "Valyrian steel!"
Tyrion blinked once.
Of course.
He remembered the dinner at Winterfell — the heavy northern wine, the oppressive silence — and Ruyan, who had spoken lightly over her cup as though discussing art or embroidery.
"In Yi Ti, we have celestial steel," she'd said. "Lighter, colder. It sings differently when struck."
At the time, it had seemed like nothing. A curiosity. A bit of foreign elegance amid the northern stone.
Now, he saw it clearly.
She'd been fishing.
No accusations, no direct challenge — just a quiet net laid over the conversation, waiting to catch anything foolish enough to surface.
Catelyn had dragged him in chains. But Ruyan? She would have waited. She would have made him walk into the noose smiling, and thanked her for the privilege.
He tilted his head slightly, watching Lysa foam with certainty.
"We Lannisters don't hand out Valyrian steel to thugs," he said, voice steady. "And if we did, my father would never forgive wasting it on common murder. He's been looking to forge a second family blade for years."
"You lie!" Lysa shrieked. "Petyr told me — he lost it to you, wagering on your brother. He would never lie to me. Or to Catelyn."
Tyrion didn't even flinch.
"My lady," he said calmly, "I never bet against my brother. Not even in jest."
Lysa's face turned blotchy with rage. She didn't respond to the logic, didn't glance at her sister — only leaned forward in her seat and jabbed a finger at him like a dagger.
"Silence!"
Her voice cracked like a whip through the hall.
"Throw him in a sky cell," she snapped. "Let him have time to reflect on his crimes."
The knights moved before Tyrion could finish raising an eyebrow.
Cold hands gripped his arms. Iron scraped his wrists. They hauled him backward, out of the hall, toward the narrow tower and the blue nothing beyond its open wall.
Tyrion didn't struggle. He only sighed.
"Now that's more like it," he muttered. "At least the cells here come with a view."
Then the doors slammed behind him, and the floor began to slope toward the sky.
CATELYN
No. She wasn't wrong.
Tyrion Lannister sent the assassin. The evidence was clear as day. She repeated it to herself, again and again, like a prayer. And yet... that very certainty unsettled her. It was too clean. Too easy.
What had the Imp said? That Robb and Ruyan let him go despite their suspicions. Ned had agreed with Ruyan's assessment — caution over impulse.
Did Petyr lie to her?
No. He would never lie. He'd been her friend since girlhood. He was loyal.
And yet... the words kept replaying. Ruyan had doubted the story. Ned had warned her not to act hastily. Now she was in the Eyrie, watching her sister — the Lady of the Vale — still nursing her boy like he were a babe, though he must be six or seven by now.
Had grief turned Lysa paranoid?
Or simply... strange?
Catelyn shook the thoughts away. The Imp would answer for his crimes.
She exhaled and, after some time alone in her chambers, decided to send a raven to Robb. He had a right to know.
A sennight passed. Lords and ladies of the Vale gathered. The High Hall of the Eyrie was crowded, and yet it all felt like a performance. The Moon Door stood open, gaping like a promise.
Catelyn took her place beside her sister on the high seat.
Tyrion Lannister was brought forth.
The sky cells had done their work. His clothes were rumpled, his face drawn, and he walked with the stiff gait of a man who'd slept too close to death. Good.
Lysa stood and raised her voice, shrill and ringing.
"You stand accused of murder. Of poisoning Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, and conspiring to kill my son, Robert!"
Tyrion's smile was faint, dry.
"The Lord Hand? How bold of me. And conspiring to kill a child? I'd sooner conspire to eat one. Though I've heard the pie here is excellent."
Gasps and scandal murmured through the gathered lords.
Lysa pointed. "You sent a catspaw to murder my nephew Bran with a dagger—your dagger!"
"Ah. The supposed Valyrian dagger of mine," Tyrion replied, with mock politeness. "The one I allegedly lost to Littlefinger in a wager? How curious that it found its way to Winterfell."
Catelyn flinched. She heard herself say it before she could stop.
"Petyr Baelish swore it was yours."
Tyrion rolled his eyes.
"Littlefinger lied. I've never owned a Valyrian steel dagger. My father would never give such a treasure to me."
The court shifted. Whispers passed from seat to seat.
Then Tyrion straightened.
"I invoke my right to trial by combat. Let the gods decide my guilt."
Catelyn's jaw clenched. No. He wouldn't win. The gods knew his guilt.
Lysa snapped, "You have no swords here, dwarf!"
"Then I'll fight with my bare hands," he said smoothly. "Or perhaps you'd prefer I use my wits? Though they seem outmatched in this company."
He scanned the crowd.
Then—
"I'll stand for the dwarf."
A man stepped forward — lean, dark, with a sellsword's arrogance. Catelyn didn't recognize him.
"I hear you Lannisters pay your debts."
She bristled. How dare this mercenary throw in with a Lannister?
Lysa shrieked, "You dare mock me? I could have you flung through the Moon Door!"
"Then do it," the man said.
Catelyn turned sharply. Lysa was trembling. But she said nothing.
Then — she nodded.
Catelyn's breath left her.
A knight of the Vale stepped forward to face the sellsword. She didn't know the man's name. And yet he was now the sword that held her son's justice in its hand.
The duel began.
Catelyn watched. The sellsword was fast. Too fast.
She saw it before anyone else did — the way he circled, the way he baited, the way he used the statue as a shield. There was no honor in how he fought. He moved like a predator. Like a man used to killing not for banners, but for coin.
And still, the lords watched.
And still, the knight tired.
And still, the sellsword lived.
Then—blood.
It ended in a moment. A sword to the armpit. The knight crumpled. And the Moon Door opened behind his body.
Lysa shrieked again, telling him to get out take his sell sword and ordered the corpse thrown out.
Catelyn stood frozen, the sound of wind screaming through the Moon Door.
Tyrion Lannister stood alive. Free. And smiling.
Her stomach turned.
He had walked in in chains.
And now he walked out untouched.
The gods had ruled.
But her heart whispered something colder:
What if they were wrong?
Or worse—
What if he wasn't?