The bright moon hung outside the narrow dungeon window like a watchful, unblinking eye.
Tyrion Lannister sat hunched on the cold stone bench, staring at that pale orb as if it were mocking him. Mocking him for his words at the wedding banquet. Mocking him for daring to defy his cruel nephew in front of hundreds of guests. Mocking him now, because Joffrey had died so magnificently—choking, clawing at his throat, eyes bulging—and the blame had fallen neatly on the Imp.
It was, Tyrion thought bitterly, the most absurd jest the gods had ever played.
Cersei, the so-called Most Beautiful Woman in the Seven Kingdoms, had wasted no time. She had turned upon him instantly, shrieking accusation before the boy-king's corpse had even cooled. The Golden Cloaks had found no evidence at the feast, no poison hidden in goblets or trenchers, but it had not mattered. The death of the king could not remain unsolved, and his sister had needed a scapegoat.
And who better than her despised little brother?
Tyrion clenched his jaw. Cersei had no evidence, of that he was certain. She did not need it. If she pointed at a dog in the kennels and named it Joffrey's murderer, half the court would nod in solemn agreement. The other half would keep their silence, fearful of her wrath.
As for their father…
Tyrion closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the damp wall. Why am I here?
Had he not saved this wretched city? Only a year ago, he had brought the Redwyne fleet to the Blackwater, turned wildfire loose upon Stannis, and held King's Landing when all others faltered. And it had been Randyll Tarly's victory at Highgarden that had finally broken Stannis's advance, forcing the would-be king to slink back to Dragonstone. That too had been arranged with Tyrion's aid.
He ought to have been praised. Honored. Remembered as a savior.
Instead, he rotted in chains.
"Is it only because I am Tyrion?" he whispered hoarsely. "Am I not his son as well?"
The thought curdled into fury. Tyrion slammed his fist against the wall with a sharp crack. Pain lanced through his knuckles, and he staggered with a cry.
A face appeared at the iron-barred door—a guard, broad and heavy, cheeks sagging with fat, gray eyes bloodshot from drink. He stared without emotion. Seeing only a dwarf clutching his hand, hopping in pain, he spat on the flagstones and turned away.
So long as the prisoner did not die, his duty was done.
Tyrion gritted his teeth, ashamed of his outburst. If a soldier on the battlefield had struck him, he could have borne the pain with pride. But this? Wounding himself like a child—it was folly. His fingers throbbed, sticky with blood, and he hissed as he lifted them to the torchlight.
"I will not die here," he muttered, voice low and fierce. "Not in such a ridiculous way. Never."
The words steadied him.
Yesterday, his good uncle Ser Kevan had visited—or rather, had come to deliver a message. The trial would be presided over by Lord Tywin himself, the boy's grandfather. To avoid suspicion, he said, Mace Tyrell and Oberyn Martell had been invited to sit as judges as well.
Tyrion had protested immediately. Mace Tyrell, even as a father-in-law of a few hours, would never favor him over the memory of Joffrey. And Oberyn—the Red Viper—was a man of serpents and shadows, his mind impossible to read. But Kevan had only shaken his head. Objections meant nothing. Tywin had spoken.
Three days, they told him. Three days to find proof of his innocence, yet he could not leave this cell.
That, too, reeked of his father's hand. Ser Kevan never decided anything for himself. He was but a mouthpiece for Lord Tywin.
So be it. If proof was denied him, there was one path still open.
Trial by combat.
But here as well, the Fates mocked him. Cersei had named her champion: Sandor Clegane, the Hound. A warrior who had once fought his monstrous brother without flinching. Had Ser Gregor lived, his brute strength might have been even worse—but Eddard Karstark had slain the Mountain in battle, leaving only his scarred sibling.
Bronn, then. Bronn would have to be his sword. Jaime, his truest brother, was still a prisoner in the North, locked away in Winterfell's tower. There was no one else.
Footsteps rang down the corridor.
"Someone's here!" barked the guard. The scrape of keys followed, and the iron door groaned open. Podrick Payne slipped in, his timid eyes darting nervously. Behind him swaggered Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, clad in a new vest studded with silver, a fine cloak fastened by a golden chain. A knight now, and proud of it.
Tyrion's mismatched eyes narrowed. "You've done well for yourself in House Stokeworth."
Bronn grinned wolfishly. "Of course. Just came back from the castle. Lady Tanda and her daughter feasted me, showered me with gold, and gave me a house in Hook Street. Told me to look after my pregnant wife."
The smile never reached his eyes. Tyrion caught the cold glint when he mentioned the Stokeworth ladies. He had already decided how to deal with them, that much was plain.
"Then I must congratulate you," Tyrion said, forcing cheer.
"You're too kind. If it weren't for following you, I'd never have risen so high, eh, Little Lion?" Bronn's grin was the grin of a wolf among sheep.
Tyrion sighed. "So you came to mock me?"
"Why else? I wanted to see what face you'd make when you learned your pretty whore had turned on you."
"Shae?" The name stabbed him. "What do you mean?"
Bronn only chuckled. "I'll tell you. But first—Pod!"
Podrick hurried out and returned with a tray heavy with food: steaming fish soup, roasted beef brisket, quail in cream, an apple pie stuffed with nuts and raisins, and a bottle of rich red wine.
Tyrion arched a brow. "What is this? My last feast?"
"Friends share meals." Bronn poured wine for them both. "Besides, stories sound better with a full belly."
Tyrion was in no mood for games. His eyes blazed. "Spare me. Tell me what you know."
"I never knew you to be so impatient." Bronn downed his own cup before beginning. "Your sister accuses you of regicide and kinslaying. The city already talks of nothing else. Three tales are most common."
"Go on."
"The first says the Tyrells poisoned the king. Joffrey was too wild, too cruel, so they killed him to set Margaery free for another match. They even sing songs of it—say the Queen of Thorns brewed the scheme, and the Rose of Highgarden carried it out herself. Quick poison, instant death. The bards love it."
"The Golden Cloaks have been busy arresting singers these last two days."
Tyrion's lip curled. "And the second tale?"
"That the Red Viper himself struck. He hated the marriage alliance, hungered for vengeance for his sister, and so he poisoned the boy at his own wedding feast. Clever, isn't it?"
"And the third?"
Bronn smirked. "Ah, that one's the best. Says Stannis sent his red witch to curse the king from afar. Magic flames, death from a distance."
"Idiocy." Tyrion waved it away. "What does this have to do with Shae?"
Bronn's grin widened. "That's where it gets sweet. This very morning, your darling Shae swore before half the court that she saw you preparing the poison. Said she didn't know what it was at the time, but after the king fell, she remembered every detail. For justice, for the realm, she'll stand as witness at your trial."
The words struck like daggers. Tyrion's goblet slipped from his hand, clattering across the floor. His chest tightened, the room swaying.
Shae… no.
His face hardened, cycling through shock, rage, despair, denial. But at last he forced himself calm. She had been compelled, surely. Cersei would have threatened her, Tywin would never have tolerated a whore so close to the family. It was his fault—his weakness—that had dragged her into this.
"She was forced," Tyrion whispered. "Anyone would have done the same."
Bronn only laughed and tore into the quail. "Smartest man in Westeros, brought low by a whore. I'll drink to that."
Tyrion's appetite returned by degrees. He ate beside Bronn in silence, forcing down bites of beef, pie, and wine. Beneath the sting of betrayal, he saw the glimmer of opportunity in what Bronn had said. Rumors, theories, unrest—those could be weapons, if wielded shrewdly.
When they had finished, Tyrion leaned forward. "Bronn, I need a favor."
The sellsword raised a brow. "Don't ask me to fight Sandor yet. I could, aye, but I've no need for your gold now. I'm no sellsword anymore."
"I don't ask that." Tyrion shook his head. "Not yet."
"Then what?"
"Deliver a message."
Bronn stiffened, suspicion flashing. "If it's a jailbreak, forget it. I've a castle waiting for me."
"Not a jailbreak." Tyrion's voice grew serious. "I must speak to my father. At once. My squire won't get past the Tower doors, but you might. Tell Lord Tywin I have urgent knowledge of Joffrey's death, and that a Lannister must not die ignominiously in a dungeon."
Bronn considered, swirling the wine in his cup.
"I'll give you armor," Tyrion pressed. "The finest Westerland smiths can forge. A matched set, with two strong warhorses and their barding. Such things are worth more than coin, even for a lord."
The mercenary's eyes gleamed. He nodded. "Done, my friend. I'll carry your words."
He rose, sweeping his cloak about his shoulders. Without another word, he strode from the cell, leaving Tyrion once more in silence.
The moon still hung outside the window, cold and mocking. But Tyrion Lannister no longer glared at it with despair. Beneath the weight of chains, a plan was taking root.
He would not die here.
Not yet.
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