The day of Tyrion's trial had dawned, and he had taken his breakfast and donned his finest attire, preparing himself for the ordeal ahead. Seated upon his stone cot, Tyrion's contemplations were interrupted by the sight of Jaime peering through the small window of his cell. With a nod to the guards, Jaime gained entry and stepped inside.
"Jaime," Tyrion greeted his brother, a touch of sarcasm lacing his words. "Let me guess, I've been pardoned?"
Jaime offered no response, merely gesturing to the guards who moved forward to secure Tyrion in manacles.
"Really?" Tyrion arched an eyebrow, his tone a mixture of resignation and defiance.
Jaime shrugged, his expression betraying a hint of discomfort. "Father's orders."
"Gods forbid we disappoint Father," Tyrion quipped. "Please, lead on."
He was to be tried in the throne room, and with Jaime at his side, Tyrion was escorted through the imposing bronze doors of the Red Keep. Tyrion was led to the accused dais, making their way down the long, carpeted corridor. He took in the room, with the weight of countless eyes upon him. Tyrion couldn't help but feel the significance of the moment pressing down upon him.
Hundreds had crowded in to see his trial. At least he hoped that was why they had come. For all I know, they're all witnesses against me. He spied Queen Margaery up in the gallery. She sat with her ladies-in-waiting and her father's household knights packed the rest of the gallery.
The accused dais awaited him, positioned beneath the imposing presence of the Iron Throne where Tommen sat, flanked by Lord Mace Tyrell and Lord Petyr Baelish. And at the head of it all, his father, Lord Tywin Lannister, the formidable figure of authority, who was to preside over the proceedings.
Once Tyrion was escorted to the accused dais, his shackles were removed, and he rubbed his wrists, feeling a fleeting sense of relief. Across the room, Tywin Lannister gestured to King Tommen, prompting the young monarch to rise from his seat. A hush fell over the room as Tommen spoke, his words carrying the weight of royal authority.
"I, Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of my Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, do hereby remove myself from this trial," Tommen declared solemnly. "Tywin of the House Lannister, Hand of the King, shall preside as judge in my stead. And with him, Lord Petyr Baelish and Lord Mace of the House Tyrell. And if found guilty, may the gods punish the accused."
With that, Tommen departed, leaving a palpable tension in his wake. The assembled courtiers took their seats, save for Tyrion, who remained standing as the High Septon began with a prayer, invoking the guidance of the Father Above.
Tywin leaned forward, his gaze piercing as he addressed Tyrion. "Tyrion of the House Lannister, you stand accused by the Queen Regent of regicide. Did you kill King Joffrey?"
"No," Tyrion replied, his voice steady despite the weight of the accusation.
"How, then, would you explain his death?" Tywin pressed, his tone sharp with suspicion.
"The gods decided Joffrey's fate," Tyrion countered, his words tinged with bitterness. "He choked on his pigeon pie."
Lord Tyrell's frown deepened. "So you would blame the bakers?"
"Them, or the pigeons. Just leave me out of it." Tyrion's attempt at levity was met with nervous laughter, but the gravity of the situation soon pressed upon him, and he regretted his choice of words.
"There are witnesses against you," Lord Tywin's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "We shall hear them first. Then you may present your witnesses. You are to speak only with our leave. Let the crown call its first witness."
Tyrion's heart sank as the herald announced the first witness—Ser Meryn Trant, the despised Kingsguard. The High Septon administered the oath, binding Ser Meryn to speak only the truth.
"Lord Hand," Ser Meryn began, launching into his account with practised ease. He recounted the events of the bread riots, painting a damning picture of Tyrion's alleged involvement. "Once we'd got King Joffrey safely away from the mob, the Imp rounded on him," he continued, his words dripping with contempt. "He slapped the king across the face and called him a vicious idiot and a fool. It wasn't the first time the Imp threatened Joffrey," he added, his voice resonating with disdain as he regaled various instances of Tyrion's perceived disrespect towards the late king.
"You're dismissed, Ser Meryn," Tywin declared as the Kingsguard concluded his testimony and left the stand.
With Ser Meryn's departure, the procession of witnesses continued, each delivering their testimony with varying degrees of veracity. Some brought forth half-truths, while others wielded undeniable truths that struck like a hammer blow against Tyrion's defence.
Ser Osney and Ser Osfryd Kettleblack recounted the infamous supper Tyrion shared with Cersei before the Battle of the Blackwater, a memory that filled Tyrion with dread and remorse.
"He told Her Grace that he would wait for a day when she was happy, and make her joy turn to ashes in her mouth," Osney declared to the gathered crowd, his words dripping with accusation.
But Ser Osmund Kettleblack took his testimony even further, claiming that King Joffrey had long harboured suspicions of Tyrion's intentions. "It was the day they gave me the white cloak, my lords," he recounted. "That brave boy said to me, 'Good Ser Osmund, guard me well, for my uncle loves me not. He means to be king in my place.'"
The accusation proved too much for Tyrion to bear. "Liar!" he spat, his voice thick with outrage as he took two defiant steps forward, only to be restrained by the gold cloaks. Lord Tywin's frown deepened at the display of defiance.
"Must we have you chained hand and foot like a common brigand?" Tywin's tone was sharp, his displeasure clear.
"No. I beg your pardon, my lords," Tyrion replied, his tone contrite. "His lies angered me."
"His truths, you mean," Cersei interjected, her voice laced with malice. "Father, I beg you to put him in shackles. You see how he is."
"We need no shackles," Lord Tywin declared. Glancing at the setting sun through the window, he rose from his seat. "The hour grows late. We shall resume on the morrow," he departed.
The following day, the trial resumed, with Maesters Ballabar and Frenken taking the stand to present their findings on King Joffrey's cause of death.
"It was poison that killed him, my lords," Ballabar declared, his assertion echoed by Frenken, as they brought forth Grand Maester Pycelle to further explain the matter.
Arranged on a table before them were an array of small jars, each containing a deadly substance. Pycelle identified them one by one. "Greycap, from the toadstool. Nightshade, sweetsleep, demon's dance. This is blindeye. Widow's blood, for its colour Wolfsbane, basilisk venom, and the tears of Lys," he enumerated his voice grave with solemnity. "I know them all. The Imp Tyrion Lannister stole them from my chambers when he had me falsely imprisoned."
Tyrion seized the opportunity to interject. "Pycelle," he called out, his voice cutting through the tension. "Was King Joffrey killed by one of the poisons stolen from your store?"
Pycelle paused, his expression inscrutable. "No. For that, you must turn to a rarer poison. When I was a boy at the Citadel, my teachers named it The Strangler." With those words, he fell silent, leaving the courtroom to ponder the implications of his revelation.
"Did you find the source of this poison?" Tyrion's voice was edged with urgency as he addressed Pycelle.
"No, my lord," Pycelle replied, meeting Tyrion's gaze without flinching. "You used it all to kill the most noble child the gods ever put on this good earth."
Tyrion's anger surged, threatening to overwhelm his senses. "Joffrey was cruel and stupid, but I did not kill him. Have my head off if you like, I had no hand in my nephew's death."
"Silence!" Lord Tywin's voice sliced through the air like a blade. "I have told you three times. The next time, you shall be gagged and chained."
With a grim resolve, Tyrion bit back as more Lords and Ladies took to the stands, each testifying against him. It became clear that arguing with them was futile; his fate had already been decided. Despite their accusations, no one offered concrete proof of his involvement in Joffrey's poisoning. All they could offer were tales of his hatred towards his nephew.
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Jaime arrived that evening, his demeanour tinged with resignation. "The trial isn't going well for you," he remarked, adjusting his pristine white cloak and sitting beside Tyrion on the cold, stone, bed.
"Oh, you think so? I hadn't noticed," replied Tyrion, idly tracing his scar.
"Why take Pycelle's poisons if not to use them?" Jaime said, but Tyrion remained silent. "Perhaps it's time for you to confess."
Tyrion was taken aback. His brother suggesting he should admit guilt? "Say that again, brother? I could swear you just encouraged me to confess."
"If you were to confess your guilt and beg for mercy before the throne, Father would spare you from the sword. You could join the Night's Watch," Jaime explained.
"Castle Black may be filled with murderers, thieves, and rapists," Tyrion countered, "but I don't recall meeting many kingslayers during my time there. You expect me to believe that by confessing to both kinslaying and kingslaying, Father will simply nod and send me off to the Wall?"
Jaime let out a weary sigh. "A confession would bring an end to all of this. That's why Father sends me with this offer."
Tyrion replied dryly, "Kindly thank him for me, brother, but let him know I'm not feeling particularly inclined to confess at the moment."
"If I were you, I'd reconsider. Our dear sister is thirsty for your blood, and Lord Tyrell seems eager to offer it to her." Jaime urged.
"One of my judges has already decided upon my guilt, without hearing my defence?" Tyrion huffed in frustration.
"Tyrion, if you truly committed this crime, the Wall would be a gentler fate than you deserve. And if you're innocent, you'll be safer there than in King's Landing, regardless of the trial's outcome," Jaime explained, his gaze lingering on Tyrion as if wanting to convey more but refraining for fear of being overheard.
Tyrion quipped, "I can see how much that possibility distresses you."
"You're my brother," Jaime replied.
"Hmm," was all Tyrion offered in return.
"Do you honestly believe Father would allow you to join the Night's Watch if you weren't his son? I've proposed a deal, offering my white cloak to secure your passage to the Wall. It's a guarantee of safety," Jaime pressed.
"The Wall isn't exactly a sanctuary," Tyrion retorted.
"With this arrangement, you'll be ensured safety," Jaime reiterated, his fervour hinting at ulterior motives that Tyrion couldn't ignore. "You'll sail to Eastwatch and then be escorted to your new home," he whispered, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "You'll be taken east. Cersei and Father will assume you're dead. Instead, you'll be living in luxury across the Narrow Sea."
Tyrion stared at Jaime in disbelief. His brother had always been devoted to their father and Cersei. "You'd risk so much for me?" he asked, recognising the danger in Jaime's plan.
"You're my brother," Jaime stated simply.
"I'll consider your proposal," Tyrion replied, his eyes misting with gratitude for Jaime's willingness to save him.
"Consider it carefully and swiftly," Jaime urged, rising and clasping Tyrion's hand. "I wish you good fortune."
"And you, dear brother," Tyrion smiled as he watched Jaime depart from his cell.
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That night, Tyrion wrestled with doubts, but by morning, he remained uncertain if his father could be relied upon. A servant delivered porridge and honey for his breakfast, but the mere thought of confessing filled his mouth with a bitter taste.
"They'll brand me a kinslayer for eternity," he muttered to himself, envisioning the legacy that awaited him. "For a thousand years or more, if I'm remembered at all, it will be as the accursed dwarf who poisoned his nephew at a wedding feast."
The notion stoked such fury within him he hurled the bowl and spoon across the room, leaving a smear of porridge on the wall.
As Tyrion made his way to the dais, dragged by Ser Meryn Trant, he pondered his options. The trial had become a tiresome charade, and he longed for its conclusion. Pleading not guilty would mean facing death and forever bearing the labels of kinslayer and kingslayer. Yet, admitting guilt would only reaffirm those damning titles. His only glimmer of hope lay in Jaime's risky offer.
The room buzzed with conversation as Tyrion took his place on the accused dais. Surveying the chamber, he reached a decision.
"MY LORDS!" he boomed, commanding attention. His father raised a hand, quieting the noise. Slowly, the hall fell silent. "I will give you your confession," Tyrion declared, meeting Lord Tywin's gaze.
A faint smile played on Tywin's lips as he nodded.
Tyrion locked eyes with his father's cold, calculating stare. "Guilty," he declared, his voice steady. "So guilty. Is that what you wished to hear?" Tywin remained impassive.
Mace Tyrell leaned forward. "You confess to poisoning the king?" he inquired.
"Nothing of the sort," Tyrion refuted. "I am innocent of Joffrey's death. But I am guilty of a greater crime." Stepping as close to his father as the dais would allow. He continued, "I was born. I lived. I am guilty of being a dwarf, and I admit it. Despite my father's attempts to forgive me, I have persisted in my supposed shame."
"This is folly, Tyrion," Lord Tywin declared. "Focus on the matter at hand. You are not on trial for being a dwarf."
"That's where you're mistaken, my lord. I've been on trial for being a dwarf my entire life," Tyrion countered.
"Do you have nothing to offer in your defence?" Tywin pressed.
"Nothing except this: I did not commit the crime. But now, I almost wish I had," Tyrion admitted, turning to address the hall filled with solemn faces. "I wish I had enough poison for all of you. You make me regret not being the monster you believe me to be, yet here I stand. Innocent, yet denied justice. You leave me no choice but to confess to hating my nephew enough to wish him dead!"
"Did you kill him?" Tywin demanded.
"I prayed for the gods to end his life sooner rather than later. And my prayer was answered. So, I must bear the guilt," Tyrion spat out.
Lord Baelish, Lord Tyrell, and Tywin leaned in, engaging in a heated discussion that Tyrion couldn't discern. After a few moments, all three rose, prompting the audience to follow suit. The room fell silent as his father read out the verdict and sentence.
"Tyrion of House Lannister, the jury finds you guilty of regicide," his father declared. "After careful consideration, you've been given a choice: beheading or a lifetime sentence at Castle Black. What is your decision?"
Tyrion let out a resigned sigh. "I'll take the black," he replied.
A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd.
"NOOOOO!" Cersei's anguished cry pierced the air. "He murdered my son! This is unacceptable. He deserves execution!" She attempted to rush toward the dais but was soon restrained by the guards. "Kill him!"
"Enough of this nonsense!" Tywin snapped at Cersei before refocusing on Tyrion. "In three days, you'll depart King's Landing aboard a ship bound for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. From there, you'll be escorted to Castle Black, where you will spend the rest of your days in service to the Night's Watch," he commanded, nodding toward Ser Meryn. "Ser Meryn, escort the prisoner back to his cell."
"Father, you can't do this!" Cersei protested.
"I can, and I will," Tywin affirmed, his tone final.
As two guards opened the gate to the dais, Ser Meryn approached, scowling as he shackled Tyrion's wrists. Amidst Cersei's continued cries, Tyrion couldn't help but smile inwardly. It was almost worth pleading guilty just to witness his sister's unravelling.
With a forceful tug on Tyrion's shackles, Ser Meryn led him away. As they exited the throne room, Tyrion pondered his uncertain future: either freezing his extremities off at the Wall or journeying eastward. As long as the wine was good, he didn't care.