Timett kicked her horse's flank and rode before the assembled crowd.
The valiant Red Hand, usually so fierce, had gone red in the face, looking almost bashful.
"You've lost your mind!" Lady Waynwood nearly shrieked. "You vile Lust Demon! Where did you find this barbarian pretending to be the Great Lord of the Vale? Do you think we are fools—or blind?"
"I can swear before the Old Gods and the Seven," the High Priest said gravely. "Every word is true. I presided over the wedding myself. And Timett son of Timett was delivered into this world by my own hands."
The weight of a priest's oath silenced most present. Tyrion let out a slow breath. He knew well that if he were the one swearing, he would earn nothing but scorn, but the oath of a holy man—even one of the Drowned God—was something these lords would believe without hesitation.
"But," Lady Waynwood pressed on, "the tale of the five daughters being taken by the Burned Men came only from soldiers who fled back to the Vale. Whether it truly happened cannot be proven. Who can say that the woman you carried off was truly—"
Before she could finish, Lord Janos Bracken spoke.
"Lady, I am Lord Janos Bracken of Stone Hedge. I once shared your doubts. But I have seen the letters the priest provided—correspondence between House Arryn and House Bracken concerning that betrothal. I examined them closely. They are not forged. That is my father's handwriting. I would never mistake it."
"Mother," Harrold Hardyng said, glancing from his foster mother to his father-in-law, his voice unsteady. "Lord Baelish." He was clearly losing his composure.
"The blood of barbarians is filthy!" someone shouted. "Even if they wed into House Arryn, they are unworthy to rule the Vale!"
"The culture of the Burned Men descends from the dragonrider Nettles, who hid in the Vale after the Dance of the Dragons," Tyrion said. "The Targaryen bloodline flows from her, mingled with the ancestry of the Vale's mountain clans and the Andal blood of House Arryn. Tell me—who among us has blood more noble than Timett's?
True dragons do not fear fire. That is why they burn themselves to prove their courage. I saw Timett fight at the Trident and again on the Blackwater. He fought with fearless valor, just as House Arryn's words proclaim: As High as Honor."
"Cousin," Timett said to Harrold Hardyng, "as you see, my claim comes before yours. I am the rightful heir to the Eyrie."
"Certainly," Tyrion added. "In the name of Casterly Rock and as Warden of the Riverlands, I am willing to grant Ser Hardyng a suitable castle—as a wedding gift to my blood brother, my cousin."
Blood brother?
The nobles turned their attention to Tyrion.
"Lord Yohn Royce?" Tyrion looked to Bronze, who nodded.
"Since the betrothal between Lady Ysilla Royce and Lord Mychel Redfort has been annulled," Tyrion announced, "the lawful heir to the Eyrie, Timett, has entered into a betrothal with Lady Ysilla Royce. I will serve as witness."
Now even the lesser lords and distant knights erupted in scattered murmurs.
Lord Horton Redfort's eyes widened. He looked from Bronze to Timett, then to Tyrion. At last, though unwilling, he spurred his horse to Bronze's side.
"My friend, you must know—my son…"
"This is not your fault, old friend," Bronze said. "Stand beside me—for the honor of the Vale."
"Enough," Petyr Baelish said sharply. "Lord Tyrion, your silver tongue never ceases to amaze me. Let us end this meeting."
"Not so fast, Littlefinger," Tyrion said. "There is one more matter I must explain to everyone—especially to you."
"I care nothing for it," Baelish said, turning to leave.
"It concerns the true cause of young Lord Robert's death." Tyrion let out a cold, humorless chuckle. "Does that not interest you, Lord Littlefinger? And do none of you care? Of course, you may ride off if you please. I shall speak with the others privately."
"Hmph." Littlefinger jerked on his reins. "You intend to accuse me?"
"Of course. If not you, then who?" Tyrion replied. "Your method was simple enough. Edric!"
Edric Dayne rode back into the ranks, and soon returned carrying a silver platter.
"Lord Petyr Baelish," Tyrion said. "You used a clever trick, exploiting the innocent child's pure greed to murder him. You laced the largest slice with poison."
"Are you mad?" Littlefinger sneered. "The cook cut the cake, not I. Every slice was the same size. Anyone here who ate it can confirm that—even your wife."
"Never mind. Have my attendant redistribute the cake," Tyrion said. "Edric, make sure everyone sees the largest slice."
Edric Dayne held the tray for the lords to inspect. Lord Horton Redfort was the first to laugh.
"Lord Tyrion, are you toying with us? Anyone but blind old Lord Vance could see one slice is larger than the others."
"Lady Waynwood, what do you think?" Tyrion asked.
Lady Waynwood's displeasure over the Hardyng succession was obvious, but since Tyrion addressed her directly, she had no choice but to answer.
"Lord Horton speaks the truth. Lannisters are liars. You live up to your reputation as the Lust Demon."
"Then, my lady, please pick the slice you believe is largest. Place it atop any other, and see whether they match."
Edric Dayne lifted the silver platter high. Lady Waynwood reached out with trembling hands, carefully selecting a piece...
"Ah!"
She gave a sharp scream. Littlefinger's face had darkened to the color of an eggplant. The nearby nobles dismounted at once, crowding around the attendant.
"This…" Bronze Yohn's brow furrowed into rings like a layered cake. "What is this? Why did you not tell me sooner?"
"An illusion, a trick of the eye," Tyrion said. "Lord Littlefinger is a master of lies and deception, and as it happens, I've studied such arts as well. With this method, slices of identical size can appear different. Poor Lord Robert Arryn—this cost him his life."
"Petyr Baelish!" Bronze Yohn drew his sword. "Dismount and face judgment!"
Lord Benedar Belmore hurried to stop him.
"Royce! This is a council! We cannot draw steel here!"
"Out of my way!" Yohn shoved aside the Lord of Strongsong. "He is a criminal, a murderer, a—"
"A conjecture," Littlefinger said, having regained his composure. "Nothing more than conjecture. A possibility. You have no proof, Tyrion Lannister. I reject your accusation."
"Then you shall die," Tyrion replied. "You murdered Robert Arryn. Lord Harrold Hardyng, when we return to camp, see this man bound for justice. Deliver him to Lord Timett, rightful heir of the Vale, and to Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone."
"Any who attempt to usurp the succession of the Eyrie, or shield Petyr Baelish—the murderer of my wife's cousin—shall be deemed traitors. I will strip them of their lands, cast down their castles, and let The Rains of Castamere play over the ruins."
"My lords, you have one day to consider. We meet again tomorrow."
...
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