Chapter Fifty-Seven
The Trial

Oberyn

He had been to trials before, even presided over a handful, the obligations of a prince of Dorne. As of late, he had attended when his brother could not, although sometimes he suspected Doran requested it more out of his personal entertainment over the need. Arianne was more than capable, but what sort of sibling would Doran be if he did not pester his little brother?

They had never been large affairs. Trade negotiations, border disputes, taxes, the most outlandish being the parentage of the bastard of a lord's daughter - a rather disastrous meeting that almost resulted in an accusation against him (a prince he may have been, but his humor was an unstoppable force). However, none of them felt like the parade of fools he was witness to at the capital. A king had been murdered, and every lord and lady had been turned into a simpering fool.

Oh, it was delightful.

His tongue was beginning to hurt from the numerous times he had to bite it in order to keep from bursting into laughter at these ridiculous testimonies. They were less about getting to the truth of things, and more about insulting the man accused to the point of bringing the audience to tears. It was a farce his brother would have never tolerated, but Tywin Lannister, despite his stone-like exterior, clearly enjoyed watching his most-hated child insulted. Only when it went too far did he finally call for order, but it took great leaps to reach that particular line in the sand.

As an esteemed member of the judges, Oberyn was under obligation to question the testimony as he saw fit, but for the most part, he allowed Mace the courtesy. Incensed by his daughter's close brush with death, he played into the theatrics well, asking the obvious questions and adding fuel to the fire beneath Tyrion. Oberyn only chimed in when there was an obvious flaw in the witness's story. He liked to explore it for all to see and watched as the clearly coached individual faltered. He never failed to notice Cersei's gaze when he did so.

Mostly, Oberyn watched those in attendance. Ellaria did not have the stomach for this 'inhumane sport,' as she put it, but Trystane was there, unwilling to leave Myrcella's side. His nephew had fallen hard for his little princess. How fortunate he was that she did not take after her family. She was, in fact, watching the trial unfold with a look of utter disgust. She refused to hide it, only allowing it to deepen with every bit of laughter that came from those around her.

Nymeria had been in and out a few times, and even Tyene had shown her face once, but Syrena was nowhere to be seen. Oberyn had not come across his daughter since that evening in the tunnels, and he worried. She had the blood of the viper after all, and they did not take well to being told they were wrong. It would make her brash. He knew that all too well.

The only other members of the gallery clearly uninterested in the spectacle were Jaime Lannister and his young wife. They were normally quite a fine pair, matching as all couples were wont to, but on that particular day, Myra had broken away from appeasement. She wore the colors of her father's house, and had stared down any would-be foe as they had entered the throne room. Jaime, in contrast, looked about as Lannister as one could, reds and golds and tacky lions. It was a funny little sight.

Oberyn leaned back in his seat, watching as the Grand Maester droned on, parroting the same words the last several witnesses had spoken: Tyrion hated Joffrey, he wanted him dead, if Margaery died in the process, even better. After all, the aid from the Tyrells overshadowed his work, and what was Tyrion Lannister but an attention seeking imp who demanded a hero's welcome?

"You used to have a beard, did you not?" Oberyn asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tywin turning toward him. Yes, how the Old Lion hated when he made a mockery of things. "Not that piece of cotton on your chin. A longer one. You were very proud of it, I recall."

Pycelle gaped at him a moment, looking like some fish he'd pulled from the Greenblood once. But he knew there was a calculating mind beneath that façade. The Grand Maester had only ever served himself. It just so happened that aligning his interests with the Lannisters often worked in his favor.

"I...I don't see what that has to do with anything," the old man stammered, looking between him and Tywin.

"Well, clearly you never would have cut it. So, tell me, how did you come to lose it?" Oberyn continued, growing impatient with Pycelle's role as an idiot. "Was it when Tyrion locked you away in the dungeons for not fulfilling your duty to the Crown?"

There were murmurs in the audience. Pycelle's chains began to jingle as he sputtered on the stand.

"I have served the king and the Hand faithfully for years, and I will not have my station besmirched by false accusations brought on by traitors!"

Oberyn leaned forward in his chair, smiling as his prey cornered itself. "Would you say then that you hold a grudge toward the former Hand, and that it would bring you great pleasure to see him suffer as you have?"

Pycelle turned a hilarious shade of red.

"Are you questioning the validity of the Grand Maester's testimony?" Mace Tyrell sputtered somewhere to his left. The chairs were positioned so that they could not quite see wone another when they looked over. A rather intelligent decision on Tywin's part. He would give him that.

"I am merely questioning the anger of a wounded man. That is all," Oberyn replied, not taking his eyes off the man in question. "He was here simply to testify to the poison used, after all. We do not require the commentary on Lord Tyrion's disposition. I only need so many people to tell me that he is an angry little man."

Someone laughed, though it was quickly covered up by a cough.

"I must admit, though, I find it curious that you possess such a rare poison as the Long Farewell."

"I am a Maester of the Citadel, tasked with keeping the knowledge of the land and expanding it if I can."

Oberyn nodded. "An honorable position. Indeed, I attempted the discipline in my youth, but I've not the patience for it. Still, the knowledge of such substances has always fascinated me. I am actually quite familiar with the poison used on the late king. It has an antidote, though it is only effective to a certain point, early on, before the liquid has saturated the blood. But it is difficult to procure, far more so than the poison itself."

"Is there a point to this, Prince Oberyn?" Tywin asked, turning to him. The man was growing impatient with his antics. Truth be told, he was surprised it had taken him this long.

"I had the opportunity to walk the Grand Maester's chambers the other day, and I found it strange that you do not possess this antidote. Surely, Grand Maester, if you are to keep such a vile poison in close proximity to the royal family, you would want to have it on hand."

Pycelle started to play with his chains, hunching over a little more. "It is possible that Tyrion took the dosage as well, so as to foil any attempt to save the king, should he have been exposed."

"So, it is only possible that Tyrion took the antidote, but certain that he took the poison. Is there someone else in the keep looking to take from you? Could they not have taken the poison as well?"

"It is...I suppose...many have access to the chambers..."

Oberyn grinned. "You have my thanks, Grand Maester, for your honesty. Might I suggest next time you keep spare vials. These are dangerous times we live in."

Tyrion was grinning as the Grand Maester was excused from the stand. The room erupted in murmurs as a small recess was called.

He stood and stretched, body aching from being forced to sit for so long. Things were popping and cracking that never used to. Ellaria liked to tease but he supposed she was right. He was an old man.

His close observation of the goings-on was interrupted by Cersei herself, as she strode up the dais to challenge him, green eyes suspiciously dark.

"You make a mockery of this trial," she hissed, eying someone over his shoulder. No doubt her father was interested in the conversation as well.

"Your Grace, this trial does not need me to make a fool of it. I have seen better performances in traveling shows," Oberyn replied with a sigh. He felt like he was dealing with one of his daughters rather than the queen. Did she truly enjoy embarrassing herself so? "You should be grateful that I am doing what I am. It makes this pathetic display more bearable."

She marched off in a huff after, leaving him to question if he did such things for entertainment or if he truly hated himself. The line blurred far more than he wanted it to.

The recess was over quickly, everyone returning to their seats with an excited buzz. Tywin resumed his kingly position and called upon his next witness.

Oberyn did not notice them at first. He was fixated on Tyrion, whose face had completely drained of blood, leaving him white as a sheet.

He looked then to the woman who stood on the platform. Dressed in a servant's garb, most would have pegged her as no one important, another testimony among the many, but Oberyn knew better. Most servants had been trained to be meek, keep their eyes down, hunch their shoulders, seem as small and unimportant as possible lest they offend their employers. This woman held her head high and looked around with a thinly veiled air of contempt. She knew what she was and she knew what they were, and found that their values had no compare.

A whore, he thought; a foreign one at that. Though some knew a good station in Westeros, in the East, they were practically goddesses. He wondered what sort of nonsense had brought her to this miserable place.

"State your name for the court," Tywin said, sounding bored. He had no idea what was before him.

"Shae," the whore spoke plainly. That wasn't her real name, of course. A girl like her would have been sold in her youth, given something easy to remember, something a drunken sailor could still manage to shout while shaking their coin purse.

"Do you swear to tell the truth?"

"Yes."

"How do you know the accused?"

She took a moment then, glancing to Tyrion before returning her gaze forward. "I was his whore."

Murmurs erupted in the throne room. Tyrion had collapsed where he stood while his brother had his head in his good hand. Myra was the only one still watching, a steely look in her gaze.

"Tell us, what do you know?"

She looked at Tyrion again. "I know he hated the king. He hated that he stole the glory he thought should have been his from the battle. He hated that you pushed him aside, my lord, but above all, he hated the queen. He would speak to me of all the horrid things he wanted to do to her. I thought he might kill her, but he told me death was too kind. She needed to suffer as he has suffered."

It was all an act, he could tell, but her foreign accent would make it hard to place for others. Although, he supposed it did not matter. Most of those gathered in the throne room had already judged Tyrion's guilt for themselves. The witnesses could have read their testimonies off a parchment and they would have reacted much the same.

"That seems quite a lot to confess to a whore," Oberyn said, drawing his leg up. He caught Tyrion's gaze and was reminded of a wounded animal that just wished to be put out of its misery. "I admit, I've known some women who had...magical properties, but never any that would make me confess to treason and regicide. I must commend your abilities, Shae."

It drew some laughter from the crowd. Tyrion sank even lower into his seat, but Shae looked at him with an ire that reminded Oberyn of his daughters. He did not know what he spoke of, and how dare he mock her position.

Oh yes, she truly did find herself better than them. No wonder Tyrion had enjoyed her company.

"I was taken from his lord father's camp at the beginning of the war, and have been with him since. He told me loved me, and I told him what he needed to hear. He was my lion, my giant of a Lannister. I was his, and he was mine."

More laughter. Tyrion looked on the verge of being sick, while Jaime Lannister had nearly stood on several occasions, held back only by his wife's iron grip.

"Was that really what he needed to hear?"

Shae nodded once. "It is a whore's job to know what a man needs. He needed to think someone could love him, and when he did, he told me everything.

"He took the poison from the Grand Maester's chambers, and the cure too. He used it to kill the king."

There were the usual gasps amongst the crowd, as if the last ten people hadn't also claimed the same thing. Oberyn was growing weary of their folly, and the part he had to play in it.

"How did he use it?" he asked, leaning on his hand. Shae looked confused. "The Long Farewell takes its time, yes, but it is also a remarkably deadly poison. Those who come in contact with it will die. If Tyrion had managed to poison the king at his dinner before the wedding, I imagine many of us might not be here either. So, how did he get so close to the king? As I seem to recall, they were not fond of one another."

"He...he sent me to the king," Shae said quietly, her head bowed. Oberyn thought he could hear a crack from how fast Tyrion's head snapped up. "He gave me a special perfume and told me I would be his present to the king for his wedding, a plaything to practice with. And when I returned, he made sure I drank some wine. He insisted, even when I said no. It was only after the king died that I realized what he made me do."

"You would confess to having a part in the king's death?" Mace Tyrell questioned.

"An unwilling part, clearly," Oberyn clarified. "Even with the antidote, she may have been at death's door and completely unaware."

He had to give this Shae credit. Her story was very convincing. Even he started to wonder if Tyrion might have done the crime, but he knew better. A man like Tyrion Lannister was guilty wherever he went. There would be no crime he could run from. All he could ever do was keep his head down and hope it was painfully obvious a man of his station could not commit the deed. To stay in King's Landing, when the choice would clearly be him, would be a fool's errand, and the dwarf was far better than that.

"Shae, look at me," Tyrion spoke from his seat, though it took a moment for Oberyn to realize it was him. His voice was a deep, wounded thing, a far cry from the Lannister's usual attitude. "Look at me."

But the whore never turned his way, her eyes forward, unmoving. She appeared to not even hear a single word he spoke.

If Oberyn could pity a Lannister, Tyrion would have it.

"Fine. I can see where this is going," the dwarf grumbled, pulling himself up. "I'm not going to waste anymore of your precious time. I'm guilty."

Tywin sat up in the throne a little more. If Oberyn did not know any better, he would have said the man was excited. "So the accused confesses to killing the king."

"What? Oh no, not that. I confess to existing. I confess to being a dwarf. I confess to being your son, which I suppose is the greatest crime I have ever committed," he spoke, pointing at his father. Oberyn watched Tywin's hands grip the throne tightly, barely able to suppress a grin. Now things were getting interesting.

"That is what I am on trial for, is it not? For being a dwarf? We surely wouldn't be here otherwise! None of you would have forgotten what I did for you if I stood higher off the ground!" Tyrion whirled on the audience. "Stannis would have sent you to all seven hells if it weren't for me, and I should have let him. This city deserves to burn, and every last one of you with it."

"That is enough!" Tywin ordered from the throne, his levelheadedness rapidly disappearing.

"It is not enough!" Tyrion shouted back. "I confess that I hated Joffrey! We all did! He was a spoiled, useless brat who preferred the torture of helpless people over their defense. He ran from the battle as he ran from his duties, and the kingdom is better off without him!"

Not a soul spoke when he paused. Was it surprise or agreement that held their tongues?

"But he was my nephew," Tyrion admitted slowly, calmer. "And somehow, I still loved him. I didn't kill him, but I suppose that no longer matters. You've all got your minds made up, haven't you?"

"Are you quite finished?" his father demanded.

Tyrion took a breath, leveling his gaze on the throne. "You want me to lie down and die, don't you? Or to beg for mercy and be shipped away so that I am no longer your concern. The son you never wanted you can finally ignore and forget about, but I will not concede. You cannot get ride of me so easily. I will haunt your every step until you are useless and senile.

"I demand trial by combat."

Now the voices returned, some shouting, some laughing, all louder than they had been all day. Oberyn saw Cersei smile in smug satisfaction. Did she truly believe Tyrion planned to fight himself? She must have enjoyed the imagery it conjured, such a small man against that beast of her family's. Screams and blood and bone crushed into fine dust. She would demand all of these things.

"Surely, you jest," Mace spoke up, quieting the others. "You cannot mean to fight yourself."

"Of course not," Tyrion replied. "You spent a whole trial proving that I am a dwarf. I can't fight. I will have a champion."

Cersei shifted in her seat, smile still present. "The crown will be represented by Ser Gregor Clegane. Tell me, what fool would think to be your champion against him?"

Oberyn almost laughed.

Instead, he stood, stepping from the dais with long, overexaggerated steps, thoroughly enjoying the perfection in his timing.

Ever the showman, he could hear Elia say.

"I think I am such a fool," he said, answering Cersei's question with a smug grin of his own, taking great satisfaction as hers melted away. It was a much better look on her. "I hereby declare before the gods and men that I, Oberyn Martell, will champion Tyrion Lannister in trial by combat."

The crowd never fell silent again, their roars nearly deafening him as they all shouted opinions and questions, cheers and jeers, and perhaps even some bets already.

Tywin Lannister approached him in the chaos, the fury in his gaze positively wonderful. This was what he had missed when they first arrived in the city, and how worth it the wait was.

"What sort of foolish stunt is this?" he asked, mindful enough to keep his voice low. "I offered what you came for."

This time, Oberyn did laugh.

"Offered," he echoed. "I do not beg for your scraps, Lord Tywin. I am a prince of Dorne. I take what I want."

Sansa

"I see you did something rather foolish today," Sansa commented, taking a sip from her tea. She'd never been a fan of it, too bitter, but she was adjusting. "At least, that's what the red mark on your face tells me."

Oberyn gently touched his cheek as he sat in the chair across from her, a small smile forming on his face. "Ellaria is a kind soul, but there is a fiery passion buried beneath it. Usually, it is used on me in...other ways."

Sansa rolled her eyes. For one brief moment, Oberyn had reminded her of Robb, and she had been home. It was a strange sensation.

"I hurt her today without warning, and this is the price I gladly pay. She will come around, but it will take time."

"And by 'I hurt her' do you mean: I decided to be Tyrion Lannister's champion in order to get the opportunity to fight the Mountain? Or has the gossip around the whorehouse failed me?"

The Red Viper gave her a strange look. Sansa wasn't sure if it was due to her accurate guess so soon after his declaration, or the fact that she used whorehouse without hesitation. While she had grown indifferent to many things during her stay in Dorne, there had been some propriety that she still clung to from her youth. It seemed that was slipping away too.

Sometimes she wondered what her mother would think, and then she remembered what propriety got her in the end.

"It has not," Oberyn admitted, sitting back in the chair, his orange garb horrendously clashing with the deep red cushions. "You sound disappointed."

"And you sound worried."

He sniffed. "Whenever my daughters are excited about something, but Ellaria is hesitant, I tend to think I've made the wrong decision. But I expected you of all people to be on my side, and you are not. I have to wonder if I said something else during that trial, or if the two of you truly do not wish me to kill the Mountain."

Sansa put her tea down on the table. "Oberyn..."

"Do you know how they died, Sansa? Do you know what he did to them?" Oberyn asked, wringing his hands. His eyes were distant. "My niece, Rhaenys, was such a little thing, just like her mother, yet they managed to stab her half a hundred times. And Aegon, he was just a babe. The Mountain smashed his head against a wall, and then he raped Elia while her son's blood and brains covered his hands. I do not know how she died. Some say she suffered the same fate as Aegon, others claim the Mountain split her in two with his greatsword. Every rumor is worse than the last one, and it cuts into me, little daggers always under my skin, never leaving me be.

"Elia was the best of us, kind and witty. She was warmer than the sun, and stronger than all of us, in spite of her health, and Gregor Clegane destroyed every last part of her, all because she was married to a man who left her for your aunt. She died and her children died for his mistakes, and now you would not want me to fight the man responsible?"

Sansa watched Oberyn carefully, noting how vulnerable he was in that moment. There was always a guarded nature to him, despite the claimed openness of the Dornish; there was always something hidden away, kept safe from harm, but she felt fully exposed to it now. He was shaking from the emotion, the sorrow and the rage that consumed him, and looked on the verge of tears. Being back in this place, this close to the man who took everything from him, was making him relive it all every day. He'd had to hold back for so long, and nearing the end was driving him to the brink of madness, she could see it now.

"I never said you shouldn't kill the Mountain," Sansa said quietly. "Someone has to, and I think you're one of the few who can."

"Then what is the problem?"

"It's not all you want."

Oberyn stilled then, turning away. He did not say anything, but she knew she had his attention.

"I used to think that the only reason you hadn't killed him already was because you're loyal to your brother, but then you offered to be Tyrion's champion. If you didn't want to cause problems for Doran, why would you do that?" Sansa asked, leaning closer. "You told me Tywin offered the Mountain to you; you had what you wanted without causing problems. But trial by combat gives you an audience. What do you want them to see?"

"I want them to hear his confession," Oberyn replied, voice low, the growl of a predator. "The maesters at the Citadel, with all their knowledge and pomp, refuse to declare him their murderer. They allow lies to be told about Elia, claims that she killed her own children, run rampant. I want the realm to know once and for all that it was the Mountain who took her from me, and we all know who he obeys."

"The Mountain will never confess."

"I can be very persuasive."

"Don't be stupid, Oberyn," Sansa said, shaking her head. "The Mountain is nothing more than a weapon himself. He barely thinks more than a sword does. Would you demand a sword confess to killing people too?"

His eyes narrowed. "You mock me."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm trying to save your life. The longer you spend out in that arena with the Mountain, the more likely it is that he will kill you. Look at yourself, Oberyn, you can't even think straight talking about him. How do you expect to fare face to face?" Sansa asked, gesturing in what she hoped was the direction of the arena. "It's like you said, he obeys one man, and that man is Tywin Lannister. That is who you should focus on hurting."

"And how do you propose I do that?"

"Start with saving his son's life. Elia deserves justice, and it doesn't end with killing the Mountain," Sansa said, seeing him beginning to cave under the pressure. "You told me once that you don't stop it, you just find someone willing to stop you."

"And is this you stopping me?"

She shrugged. "Attempting to. I can hardly hold you back if you really want to get yourself killed, but I'd prefer that you stay around for a few more years."

"Just a few?"

"Well, you are old."

He began to laugh then, pressing a hand to his chest. "How you wound me. Were you this cruel to your brothers?"

"Worse."

The playfulness faded from his face as he turned thoughtful, but in the end, his smile returned. "I think you are, perhaps, too good at this, Sansa Stark. I might have preferred it when you were avoiding me in the Water Gardens. At least then I could ignorantly believe I was an intelligent man."

The humor didn't reach his eyes, but she'd done as much as she could. It was up to Oberyn as to whether he would listen or not.

"And what about you?" he asked. "When this business is concluded, I do not plan on staying here. Surely you don't plan on spending the rest of your days hiding in a whorehouse."

Sansa shook her head. "No, I don't. I'll be leaving soon enough...with Littlefinger."

She watched Oberyn's eyebrows reach a hilarious height. "You just told me not to be stupid, meanwhile you are planning to leave with that rat?"

"I know what I'm doing."

"That is what we all say when someone rightfully calls us out for being stupid."

Sansa frowned. It was something she had been mulling over every moment she had to herself, which was far more than she wanted. On one hand, she would be on her own, somewhere unfamiliar, surrounded by individuals with questionable loyalties. It left her heavily dependent on Littlefinger, something no one should want, but what else could she do? Letting the man out of her sight was not an option. Of all the schemes occurring across all the realm, it was his that were the most dangerous. Someone needed to know what was going on; someone needed a way inside.

Besides, he'd said she was someone of value. Value meant protection to a degree. She wasn't so foolish as to believe he wouldn't attempt to use her in some way that would put her in harm's way, but she probably wouldn't be dead in the near future, which was about as positive an outlook as one could conjure nowadays.

She needed him, and he needed her, and that was really all that mattered.

"I don't have any other choice then, if that makes you feel better about it," she spoke eventually, holding a finger up. "Tell me how we always have a choice and I'll throw this tea in your face."

Oberyn chuckled, holding his hands up in surrender. "Very well, I know better than to fight a completely hopeless battle."

They fell silent after that, the sounds of King's Landing wafting in through the open window. Such a variety of noises she'd heard over the past couple weeks, everything from cheers to wails and now to an endless stream of gossip. She'd heard the same story told in ten different ways. It was amazing how much the truth distorted once it was out.

"I wonder if we shall see one another again," Oberyn mused, smirking to himself. "I suppose it does not matter. People like you and I should learn to stop caring. We tend to lose more than most."

"I don't think you can."

"You're right. But it is a nice idea," he replied, looking at her. "But I think that you can. Does that bother you?"

Sansa looked outside the window. There was a young woman begging in the street with bright red hair and a fair complexion.

"No. I don't believe it does."

Myra

It was two days from the announcement to Tyrion's trial by combat, and she hardly slept a wink through it all. She would lie awake at night, staring at the canopy, thinking of all the horrible things that could go wrong. Jaime would do the very same, but they never spoke. She was still trying to wrap her head around what he had confessed to her, and he knew that.

She had forgiven him for so many terrible acts, and yet this one stuck with her, refusing to let her move on. Some small, perhaps vile, part of her almost thought that it was worse than what he did to Bran.

If she stepped away, looked at what happened from a neutral point of view, his attack on Bran was simply about a man defending his family - it had been part of the reason she had forgiven him in the first place. But Tyrion was Jaime's family, and yet he'd allowed it to happen. It would have caused Jaime no harm to interfere - he was his father's beloved firstborn after all - and yet, her husband had done no such thing. He'd stood by and watched as his little brother's brief bout of happiness twisted and died, at the cost of a young woman's innocence.

The idea of allowing something of that nature happen to one of her brothers made her stomach churn. She couldn't bear to see any one of them in pain, and what Tyrion experienced was an agony on a level she could not begin to understand.

And when he learned the truth, he would have to relive it all over again.

She debated over if she was right at all, thinking that Tyrion needed to learn the horrid truth. But the way he acted, the way he was, all made much more sense after learning that dreadful story. He clearly hadn't moved passed it. No, it had possessed him, body and soul, and was a driving force for so many of his choices in life. If he was ever going to have a chance of getting past it, he needed to know.

Perhaps he would hate Jaime for the rest of his life, but maybe he wouldn't hate himself so much.

Maybe.

The emotional turmoil the members of the Lannister family went through made her head spin every time she thought on it. Everything was so twisted on itself; it was so hard to say what was good or bad for them. Perhaps it would always be both.

It was not the first time she would thank the gods for her parents.

When she woke up that morning, Myra was alone in the bed. Her heart briefly dropped when her hand reached across the sheets to find a cold spot where Jaime usually was. She may have been finding it difficult to forgive him, but she still needed him; she supposed love was complicated like that.

Jaime was still in the room, finishing the buttons on his jacket. She watched him briefly struggle with the last one and wondered how long he had been awake in order to dress. Did he think she no longer wished to touch him?

He was a man of incredible extremes, her husband.

"I'm going to see Tyrion before the combat begins," Jaime explained when he saw her watching him. He almost looked embarrassed. "Bring him some comfort, whatever that means."

She spied the wineskin on the table and smiled.

The action apparently confused him, and he briefly froze, mouth parted, before grabbing the wine and turning to the door.

"Jaime," Myra called after him. "It's going to be alright."

She wasn't certain if she meant it for Tyrion or them. Perhaps it was both; perhaps it was neither. But it was something Jaime needed to hear, and she thought he looked a little relieved when he left.

Brienne escorted her to the arena, eying every passerby as if they'd stick a knife in her the moment she took her eyes off of them. For once, Myra couldn't blame her. It was probably true.

She'd had Syrena pick out a light, yellow dress for her. Myra felt it looked absolutely terrible, the pale colors clashing with her already pale skin, but she wanted to make certain there was no confusion over who she stood for this day. She was done pretending to mourn or stand for a family trying to kill their own. When justice was served, maybe then she would.

If it was served.

"What do you think of all this?" Myra asked her escort. She'd spoken far too much to others she did not care for, and far too little to those she trusted. She could not leave this vile place soon enough. "The trial, that is."

Brienne actually snorted. "I detest trials by combat. It allows for far too many guilty parties to slip away, if they've the skill."

Myra nodded. "That is true, but if it weren't for them, Tyrion would already be dead. And perhaps...if my father had been given the chance..."

They stopped before a large doorway, with two massive red doors opened on either side. Nobles poured through them, flowing like a rapid stream, the air buzzing with their conversations, all focused on the battle ahead. They were ushered through a corridor that opened to the outer edges of the gardens, and to a small arena designated for trials. A whole part of the castle dedicated to one sordid thing. It was perhaps one of the least surprising things about it.

"My lady, I do not know much of the workings of this place, but I do know this," Brienne started, sympathy in her bright eyes. "Even if your father had won such a trial, he would have never left this place."

She knew Brienne was right, but the young girl in her that still desperately wished for her parents back wanted to hope. Perhaps in a life she'd never lead, she saw him again.

"No, he wouldn't have," Myra agreed, sighing. "I just wish for this place to be done with us already. We'll leave within the week, no matter what the outcome today. I'd leave tonight if I could manage it."

"I have managed to figure out where the stables are, my lady. If you don't mind having a bed of dirt," Brienne said with a wry smile.

"Is that a sense of humor, Lady Brienne?"

"Perhaps," the woman teased, walking through the threshold with her. "Don't tell your husband."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

The sun was shining brightly that day, the air hot and dry despite fall having settled upon the realm. There were more dried leaves blowing about with every breeze that whipped around the arena, but otherwise Myra would have thought it a normal summer day. Ladies dressed in light silks were fanning themselves as they stood at the stone railings, searching for the contestants. Servants bustled to and fro with drinks and fruit. Lords were wagering in corners, laughing at something the other said, spilling their wine as they were already drunk.

Someone was going to die by the end of this match, and they were all gathered together as if it was the greatest party in the land.

She remembered Ser Hugh, bleeding out in the sand, alone and scared.

This would never be a place she could belong, and for once, Myra took pride in that notion.

"My lady, I certainly hope that outfit means I would have your favor today," Oberyn called out, striding across the walkway with a smug grin and even smugger gait. He was not a man who expected to die. "From what I have been told, I'll need the new gods and the old, and perhaps that drowned one too."

Given the armor he was wearing, Oberyn may have been right. It was nothing more than boiled leather. Of course, it was of the finest make, as detailed as the clothing she wore, but it would do little against a sword, particularly one wielded by the largest man in the realm. She certainly hoped his confidence could make up for his lack of care.

"I'm afraid my favor has already been promised to someone," she replied, not wanting to air her concerns.

"I don't believe that someone will be doing much fighting from now on," Oberyn replied with a pointed look. Jaime was already seated in the place of honor, shaded from the sun by fine red canvas. Myrcella was seated beside him, dressed in a deep orange, whispering something in his ear, as far away from her mother as she could manage. "Still, you cannot allow me to walk away empty-handed, not on a day like today. A kiss, perhaps?"

Before Myra could say anything, Oberyn had grabbed her hand, gently pressing his lips against her skin. She felt something metal in her palm, and grasped her fingers around it as he relinquished his hold.

"And what about you, Lady Brienne?" he asked jovially, moving on without missing a beat.

"A fist, perhaps, Prince Oberyn," her escorted murmured. It seemed even she had been spending too much time with Jaime.

The Red Viper chuckled, his grin sharp. "I'm afraid you've already given me one of those. Perhaps some other time."

Oberyn disappeared into the crowd as quickly as he had appeared, though she could hear his voice as he spoke to those around him. There were cheers, and she could have sworn a drink was tossed into the air.

"You fought him once, Brienne, does he have a chance?"

She didn't answer.

Eventually, they made their way to the sitting area. Brienne remained outside the tent, while Myra took her place beside Myrcella. It felt strange, being so far from Jaime, but she also felt better knowing the young girl had someone she could count on sitting on either side of her.

"How was Tyrion?" Myra asked, eyes skimming over the arena. It was smaller than she expected, giving little room for the combatants to maneuver; it was made for the battle to go as quickly as possible, with little stalling on the part of either fighter.

"He only vomited once. That's pretty good, all things considered," Jaime replied, frowning at the look Myrcella gave him. "There's not much else we can do for him now. Just...pray."

She wondered if he was becoming religious again just for this one instance. Would the gods care?

Myra looked down at the tents before the arena. Oberyn was speaking to his paramour, sharing one last kiss while Tyrion was drinking as much as he could. In the other tent, all she saw was a massive dark spot, realizing that it was all one man, standing in his amor, waiting.

When Ser Gregor had lost against Loras Tyrell, Myra remembered how he'd nearly cut his horse's head off in one swift stroke. The idea of what he could do to a simple man made her stomach twist into knots.

She looked to her hands, catching a glimpse at the trinket buried within her fingers. It was a pendant, a little mockingbird made of silver.

Oh Sansa, what have you done?

Myra held it close, forcing down the lump in her throat as the Grand Maester spoke, but the words never made it to her ears, only the sound of her heartbeat as the Mountain rose from his seat and walked into the arena. He wore heavy armor from head to toe, and carried a sword bigger than some people. Meanwhile, Oberyn retained his leather armor, helmetless, with little more than a spear to fight with.

She knew he was an able fighter, but this looked to be openly mocking fate. If she did not know better, Myra could have sworn he wanted to die.

The Red Viper spun his spear and flipped around, putting on a show for the crowd, and they played right into his theatrics, cheering and whistling. Ladies threw favors that were caught on the breeze, lost forever. Someone even tossed a coin. This wasn't a battle for a man's innocence. It was just another form of entertainment.

One of these men would be dead shortly, and it was what they wanted, as if the war hadn't taken enough lives across the realm.

As if the Mountain hadn't butchered smallfolk in the most heinous of ways.

If the gods were truly just, they'd let him die this day, not just for Tyrion, but for all the others he had wronged.

Perhaps she wasn't so different from them after all...

She heard Myrcella take a deep breath beside her, and reached out her hand. The young girl took it and squeezed with all her might.

The opponents circled one another a moment, waiting.

"Do you know who I am?" Oberyn asked, lazily spinning his spear. He didn't even seem concerned about letting his guard down.

"Some dead man," the Mountain huffed, even his voice sounding unhuman. He moved with a speed a man of his size shouldn't possess, swinging his sword down with a might that would have cleaved Oberyn in two had he not side-stepped. Even then, he lashed out with a backhanded swing that was barely defected by his spear.

But the Prince of Dorne was not bothered by the close call. He was only angry.

"My name is Oberyn Martell, brother to Princess Elia, the woman you raped and murdered after you killed her children," the Red Viper spoke. His voice wasn't particularly loud, but every word made it clearly to where she sat. It must have been the shape of the arena. "And before you die today, you will confess it before all these people, and before your master."

Once again, the Mountain attacked with blows that would have killed a normal man, but Oberyn was quick on his feet, and twice as skilled, precisely deflecting and redirecting those blows. His spear shook and bent, but it never broke under the strain. And despite the Mountain's speed, Oberyn was that much quicker, getting in little shots on his armor that did not wound, but certainly worked to anger the beast.

"You raped her!" he cried out, flinging the Mountain's helmet off with the tip of his spear. It left a cut across his cheek. "You murdered her! You killed her children!"

"That's it," Myrcella whispered.

"What is?" Myra asked, leaning closer.

"Prince Oberyn always poisons his spears. No matter what happens today, Ser Gregor will die eventually, and I doubt it will be pleasant."

In the back of her mind, Myra could hear her father going on about honor, but found that she did not mind it. A monster like Gregor Clegane shouldn't be allowed to continue in the world. If Oberyn could not defeat him, at least she had the comfort of that, whatever little it would provide.

Her eyes kept flicking up to Tyrion as the battle continued. He was frozen to the spot, completely unmoving, the same as Ellaria. Oberyn had no fears because the two of them held enough in his place.

"Say it!" Oberyn shouted, spinning away from a sword swing. "Confess!"

"Stop talking!" the Mountain shouted. He was growing frustrated with the prince, swinging wildly. For most fighters, their opponent losing their calm would be an advantage, but Myra felt the Mountain was only more dangerous now. A rabid animal that would take its killer down with it. Oberyn had to be careful, but she doubted he knew the meaning of the word.

They continued back and forth like this, Oberyn shouting while the Mountain swung wildly. At some point, a lucky hit was made, and Oberyn stumbled back as a line cut across his chest. It didn't make it through the armor, but that didn't stop Myrcella from burying her face in Jaime's shoulder.

"Stop gambling with his life, you fool," she heard Jaime mumble.

Myra was holding the pendant in her hand so tightly that it was cutting her skin.

"You raped her! You murdered her! You killed her children!" Oberyn nearly screamed, having at the Mountain with the same ferocity he'd been showing the whole time. A few well-placed shots had the giant of a man stumbling backwards. He even managed to trap his sword down against the ground with his spear. "Confess!"

The Mountain released his sword, backhanding Oberyn across the face, a smack so loud it sounded like stone cracking.

Gasps could be heard all around. Myra sat up in her seat, her hand squeezing Myrcella's.

Stumbling backwards, the prince had one hand on his face, blood clearly pouring from between his fingers. He staggered a little too far, and fell over backwards, the crowd crying as the Mountain descended upon him, sword swinging down for the final blow. But Oberyn rolled and dodged. His spear hand blocked and directed a blow away from his head. He continued this for several moves until he finally rolled away and stood, spinning his spear out in front of him.

His face was a bloody mess. There was no doubt in her mind that his nose was broken, perhaps even his cheekbone. There was a cut on his brow too, bleeding down into his eye. And that was all from one hit, albeit one from a man whose hands were probably larger than his head.

The Mountain didn't slow down, coming for Oberyn in rapid succession. He couldn't shout for his sister anymore because he had no time to breathe, much less speak. The prince was very much on the defensive now, the blow to his head clearly doing more damage than they could see. His footsteps weren't as solid, his grip not as assured.

But he was still a good fighter, and managed to flank his opponent, cutting the back of his knee and sending him to the ground. It gave Oberyn a moment to breathe, and to think.

She watched him standing there, waiting for the Mountain to move, his armor rising and falling with every heavy breath. He turned to look at the stands, his eyes locking onto someone to her right. Myra turned her head, watching as Tywin watched him back.

Oberyn sighed then, and his shoulders sank. His lips mumbled something, but she couldn't make it out over the noise.

And then, there was a shift.

When the Mountain lunged again, Oberyn moved with a speed she had yet to see from him. He was like a man possessed, driving his opponent back despite his wounds. He cut his legs and he cut his arms; he drove the spear so close to Ser Gregor's face, the man had to stumble away to avoid losing his eyes. He took out his other knee and brought him to the ground. When the Mountain attempted to swing his sword across and take Oberyn at the waist, the prince jumped, and then drove his foot on top of the blade.

He pulled his spear back with a shout, and drove the thing into Ser Gregor's mouth. It pierced the back of his head, blood spattering across the stone and sand behind it.

No one cheered in the crowd, afraid perhaps, but Tyrion's laughter could be heard across the arena. It was the laugh of a man who'd just stared death in the face and won.

Myra turned to look at Jaime, and found him already staring back at her, a wide grin on his face. And just beyond him, Cersei had gone utterly still.

Oberyn stepped back from the Mountain, pulling his spear out. The weapon returned with a crunch as it broke through more of his skull, his body dropping heavily to the ground.

The Prince of Dorne looked up at their seats, gaze unflinching despite the blood. He pointed his spear at Tywin Lannister, a trail of red steaking behind it.

"In the eyes of gods and men, I declare Tyrion Lannister an innocent man!"

. . .

A/N: Hello! I want to thank all of you for reading so far! I am so terrible at updating. This isn't the original site I posted on and it is actually a couple chapters behind. Please look on FFN if you want the full up to date story.