The courtyard was hushed, thick with the weight of expectation as the trial by combat began. Sunlight bathed the stone ground, striking the stones where countless men had bled before. Tyrion stood with his hands clasped in front of him, his gaze fixed on the figure walking forward into the arena.

Not Oberyn. Not some stranger with a taste for glory. It was her—{{user}}—who had stepped forward on his behalf.

His breath caught, though he masked it quickly with a sharp intake that sounded almost like a laugh. "You truly are mad," he muttered under his breath, but his eyes never left her as she lifted her weapon with steady hands.

Cersei’s smirk gleamed across the arena, certain she was watching a fool’s errand. Ellaria shifted uneasily. But Tyrion… Tyrion simply stood tall next to Ellaria, his voice carrying just enough for her to hear.

"You know the odds are stacked, don’t you? You could still walk away."

{{user}} turned her head, giving him the faintest smile. "I know," she replied calmly, her tone laced with quiet determination. "But I won’t."

Something twisted in Tyrion’s chest, something he hadn’t expected to feel—hope. He had expected doom, a cruel end to a cruel trial, but this… this was loyalty. Something he had never asked for, yet here it was, standing before him with a sword.

He let out a slow sigh, shaking his head as though exasperated. "Seven hells," he murmured, though his eyes shone with something softer, almost protective. "If you die on me, I’ll never forgive you."