Game of Thrones: Winter Lord

By the time Cole arrived at the hall, it was already packed with knights and nobles.

Ser Brynden Tully left him at the door, disappearing without a word. Cole scanned the room and spotted Bronn lounging against a pillar, his expression as lazy as ever. He made his way toward him.

The hall blazed with torchlight, shadows flickering across the high stone walls. At the far end, seated above the crowd, Lady Lysa Arryn presided over the gathering, draped in a flowing black gown. She had summoned them all to witness the so-called confession of the "little devil."

With a heavy bang, the doors swung open. A group of knights escorted Tyrion inside.

"Looks like trouble for your dwarf friend," Bronn murmured.

Cole followed his gaze. Tyrion glanced around the hall, his sharp eyes locking onto Cole for the briefest moment before he was shoved forward.

The knights led him to the center of the room before stepping aside. He stumbled, but quickly steadied himself, offering a courteous bow.

Lady Catelyn Stark wasted no time. "I hear you intend to confess."

"Yes, my lady," Tyrion answered.

Lysa Arryn exchanged a triumphant glance with her sister. Her notorious sky cells had finally broken the infamous Imp.

"Speak," she commanded.

But instead of groveling, Tyrion smiled. "Where should I begin? I admit—I am a wicked little man."

His tone was mocking, his confession a farce. He listed petty misdeeds with exaggerated theatrics, turning the moment into a comedy rather than a plea for mercy.

The absurdity sent ripples of laughter through the hall.

"Silence!" Lysa snapped, her face darkening with fury.

Tyrion only spread his hands. "But my lady, I am confessing."

"You stand accused of sending men to murder my bedridden son, Bran Stark, and conspiring to kill my late husband, Lord Jon Arryn."

Tyrion shrugged. "I'm afraid I cannot confess to crimes I did not commit."

Lysa shot to her feet, her fury barely contained. "Take him back to the sky cells!"

Before the knights could seize him, Tyrion raised his voice, ringing through the hall.

"Is there no justice in the Vale of Arryn?" he roared. "No honor left in the Bloody Gate? You accuse me, I deny it—so I am simply thrown into a cell to starve and freeze?"

He lifted his chin defiantly. "Where is the king's justice? If I am to be judged, let it be by the gods and the people. I demand a trial!"

Lysa scoffed, her lips curling. "A trial? Very well. This is the Eyrie, and the judge shall be my son, Lord Robert Arryn."

At her command, attendants moved to open the moon door—a gaping hole in the floor, leading to a sheer drop into the mountains below. A cruel and dramatic means of execution.

Tyrion smirked. He had expected as much. His gaze flicked toward Bronn under the pillar before he spoke.

"Ah, my lady, there is no need to trouble young Lord Robert," he said smoothly. "The gods will decide my innocence. I demand trial by combat!"

The hall erupted in laughter. Even those who had despised Tyrion found his audacity entertaining. Only Catelyn Stark and the Blackfish remained solemn, their gazes shifting toward the man still leaning against the pillar.

Catelyn frowned, turning toward her sister, but Lysa was already smiling in amusement. "Of course," she said, feigning surprise. "You have that right."

At once, more than a dozen knights stepped forward, eager for the chance. Fighting for House Arryn's favor was one thing, but winning Lady Lysa's admiration was another. If they impressed her, they might not only gain a powerful patron but also a chance to claim her heart—and with it, control over the Vale.

Yet Lysa ignored them all, raising a hand to silence the commotion.

"Ser Vardis Egen," she called instead.

The captain of the guard, once a loyal servant of Jon Arryn, stepped forward. He was a seasoned knight, known for his discipline and skill.

Vardis hesitated. "My lady, I am honored, but this man is no warrior." He gestured at Tyrion. "Look at him. He is half my size."

Tyrion smirked. "I imagine my brother would be delighted to fight in my stead."

Lysa's face twisted in annoyance. "Your Kingslayer brother is leagues away. You will face Ser Vardis Egen tomorrow."

Tyrion turned to the singer, Marillion. "Be sure to compose a song about how Lady Arryn denied me a champion," he quipped.

Lysa's eyes flashed with anger. "I would never deny you that right," she snapped. "If you have the means, choose your champion."

A hush fell over the hall. All eyes turned to Tyrion—then, almost as one, to Bronn.

The sellsword smirked but remained silent, watching the moment unfold with lazy amusement.

Tyrion exhaled, considering his next move carefully.

"Ser Cole, your employer needs help now," Tyrion called toward the pillar.

Lysa blinked in surprise, momentarily caught off guard. Following Tyrion's gaze, she saw a young man standing upright. He was neither particularly tall nor overly muscular, but he had a strikingly handsome face and a youthful appearance.

"You?" Lysa asked, her voice laced with skepticism. "Are you truly going to fight for the little devil?"

Cole inclined his head slightly in respect. "Yes, my lady. I am willing to fight in Tyrion Lannister's place."

Her expression darkened. "Do you understand what you're doing?" she asked, her tone carrying an unmistakable threat.

"Of course," he replied evenly. "How could I stand by while my friend is in trouble?"

Lysa studied him, still unconvinced, but before she could speak, her sister Catelyn interjected sharply.

"This boy is no knight."

Cole stiffened. The words struck him like a blow. Was the title of "knight" truly so important? Was he unworthy of trial by combat simply because of a lack of noble recognition?

In the Seven Kingdoms, knights were plentiful, their vows sometimes empty words. But here, in the Vale, titles held weight.

Lysa turned to her sister and found Catelyn glaring at her in open disapproval. Slowly, a sly smile crept across her lips.

"Little devil, is this the champion you have chosen?" she asked mockingly. "Did you appoint him personally? He has no right to fight in your stead."

Tyrion hesitated. Clearly, he hadn't considered this obstacle. But with his usual quick wit, he straightened and declared, "All are equal under the gods."

Lysa scoffed. "If you cannot find a knight to champion you, then you shall fight for yourself tomorrow, little devil. I have given you a chance."

Tyrion's gaze swept the room, searching. "I wonder which noble knight will appoint this young man," he mused aloud. "Surely, someone here will take pride in it."

The hall fell into heavy silence. No one stepped forward.

Bronn narrowed his eyes, deep in thought. He shifted slightly, raising his foot as if to step forward—but before he could, another voice cut through the tension.

"Let me do it."

The voice was deep and steady.

All eyes turned toward its source.

Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish.

"Uncle, what are you doing?" Lysa's mask of composure cracked, her face twisting with fury. She couldn't comprehend why her uncle, of all people, would interfere.

Ser Brynden descended from the stands with measured steps. "The trial must be fair and just," he declared. "This boy is willing to fight for his friend. I approve of his courage—he carries himself like a knight."

He stopped before Cole, then drew his sword. "Kneel, child."

Cole met his gaze, gratitude flickering in his eyes before he lowered himself onto one knee.

With solemn reverence, Brynden rested the flat of his blade on Cole's shoulder and intoned:

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.In the name of the Mother, I charge you to be merciful.In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to be pure.In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be diligent.In the name of the Crone, I charge you to be wise.In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to embrace the unknown."

"The Seven bless you, Cole, knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Rise."

He tapped Cole's shoulders with his sword, sealing his knighthood.

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