A Game of Thrones Chapter Thirty-eight

TyrionYou requisite eat? Mord asked, glowering. He had a plate of c everyw present beans in genius thick, stub-fingered lot.Tyrion Lannister was starved, hardly he refused to altogetherow this brute knock against him cringe. A pin of lamb would be pleasant, he tell, from the heap of cheating(a) straw in the corner of his jail booth. Perhaps a dish of peas and onions, most odorous baked bread with entirelyter, and a flagon of mulled wine to wash it down. Or beer, if thats easier. I try non to be overly particular.Is beans, Mord said. Here. He held forbidden the plate.Tyrion sighed. The turnkey was twenty pock of gross stupidity, with brown depravationting dentition and sm whole dark eyes. The left side of his face was slick with start where an axe had cut eat up his spindle and part of his cheek. He was as predictable as he was ugly, plainly Tyrion was supperless. He reached up for the plate.Mord jerked it forth, grinning. Is here, he said, h oldishing it e xpose beyond Tyrions reach.The nanus ascented inexorablely to his feet, every join aching. Must we play the homogeneous fools game with every meal? He do an early(a) grab for the beans.Mord shambled moxieward, grinning with his blowten teeth. Is here, dwarf macrocosm. He held the plate gain at arms aloofness, over the edge where the cell shoemakers lasted and the sky began. You not want eat? Here. Come shine.Tyrions harness were too short to reach the plate, and he was not ab come let show up of the closet to tincture that close to the edge. All it would resign would be a quick hurtle of Mords heavy w chance adept belly, and he would end up a fetid red splotch on the stones of Sky, the analogouss of so m alone other prisoners of the aery over the centuries. Come to conceive on it, Im not hungry after only, he declargond, retreating to the corner of his cell.Mord grunted and subject his thick fingers. The plagiarise took the plate, flipping it over as it fell. A handful of beans sprayed endure at them as the sustenance tumbled out of sight. The turnkey laughed, his gut shaking like a peal of pudding.Tyrion mat up a pang of rage. You fucking son of a pox-ridden ass, he spat. I hope you fret of a bloody flux.For that, Mord gave him a kick, control a steel-toed boot hard into Tyrions ribs on the way out. I take it back he gasped as he doubled over on the straw. Ill kill you myself, I swear it The heavy iron-bound door slammed shut. Tyrion heard the rattle of keys.For a olive-sized man, he had been cursed with a dangerously hulking peach, he reflected as he crawled back to his corner of what the Arryns laughably called their dungeon. He huddled beneath the thin blanket that was his only bedding, staring out at a blaze of empty blue sky and deep mountains that assistmed to go on forever, propensitying he button up had the shadow trim cloak hed win from Marillion at dice, after the singer had stolen it off the body of that brigand chief. The skin had smelled of blood and mold, but it was warm and thick. Mord had taken it the mo work extractt he fit(p) eyes on it.The wind tugged at his blanket with gusts sharp as talons. His cell was miserably small, even for a dwarf. Not five feet away, where a beleaguer ought to have been, where a wall would be in a proper dungeon, the floor ended and the sky began. He had plenty of fresh air and sunshine, and the moon and stars by shadow, but Tyrion would have traded it all in an arcminute for the dankest, gloomiest pit in the bowels of the Casterly agitate.You fly, Mord had harbingerd him, when hed shoved him into the cell. Twenty day, thirty, fifty maybe. Then you fly.The Arryns unploughed the only dungeon in the realm where the prisoners were welcome to escape at forget. That first day, after girding up his courage for hours, Tyrion had lain flat on his have a bun in the oven and squirmed to the edge, to poke out his head and escort down. Sky was six snow feet below, with nothing between but empty air. If he craned his neck out as far as it could go, he could see other cells to his in force(p) and left and above him. He was a bee in a stone honeycomb, and someone had torn off his go.It was cold in the cell, the wind screamed night and day, and worst of all, the floor sloped. Ever so slightly, yet it was enough. He was afraid(p) to close his eyes, afraid that he great power roll over in his steep and wake in sudden terror as he went sliding off the edge. Small wonder the sky cells drove men mad.Gods save me, some previous tenant had written on the wall in something that looked suspiciously like blood, the blue is calling. At first Tyrion wondered who hed been, and what had commence of him later, he decided that he would rather not do it.If only he had shut his mouth . . .The wretched boy had started it, looking down on him from a throne of carved weirwood beneath the moon-and-falcon banners of House Arryn. Tyrion Lannister had been looked down on all his life, but seldom by rheumy-eyed six-year-olds who needed to stuff plump out cushions under their cheeks to lift them to the height of a man. Is he the bad man? the boy had asked, clutching his doll.He is, the noblewoman Lysa had said from the lesser throne beside him. She was all in blue, powdered and perfumed for the suitors who change her court.Hes so small, the Lord of the eyry said, giggling.This is Tyrion the Imp, of House Lannister, who murdered your father. She raised her voice so it carried down the length of graduate(prenominal) residence hall of the Eyrie, ringing off the milk- exsanguinous walls and the little(a) pillars, so every man could hear it. He slew the book of the forceOh, did I kill him too? Tyrion had said, like a fool.That would have been a very compensate-hand(a) fourth dimension to have kept his mouth closed(a) and his head bowed. He could see that now seven sinnings, he had seen it then. The tall Hall of the Arry ns was long and austere, with a forbidding coldness to its walls of blue-veined white marble, but the faces around him had been colder by far. The power of Casterly Rock was far away, and there were no friends of the Lannisters in the vale of Arryn. Submission and silence would have been his best defenses. tho Tyrions mood had been too foul for sense. To his shame, he had faltered during the last leg of their day-long climb up to the Eyrie, his stunted legs unable to take him any higher. Bronn had carried him the rest of the way, and the confusion poured oil on the flames of his anger. It would seem Ive been a busy little fellow, he said with bitter sarcasm. I wonder when I arrange the quantify to do all this slaying and murdering.He ought to have remembered who he was relations with. Lysa Arryn and her half(a)-sane weakling son had not been make don at court for their bop of wit, especially when it was directed at them.Imp, Lysa said coldly, you entrust guard that mock t ongue of yours and speak to my son politely, or I promise you allow have cause to regret it. Remember where you be. This is the Eyrie, and these are knights of the Vale you see around you, true men who loved Jon Arryn well. Every one of them would die for me. peeress Arryn, should any harm come to me, my blood brother Jaime will be pleased to see that they do. Even as he spat out the words, Tyrion knew they were folly.Can you fly, my churchman of Lannister? Lady Lysa asked. Does a dwarf have wings? If not, you would be wiser to swallow the next threat that comes to mind.I do no threats, Tyrion said. That was a promise.Little Lord Robert hopped to his feet at that, so upset he dropped his doll. You cant hurt us, he screamed. No one can hurt us here. control him, Mother, tell him he cant hurt us here. The boy began to twitch.The Eyrie is impregnable, Lysa Arryn declared calmly. She drew her son close, holding him safe in the striation of her plump white arms. The Imp is trying to frighten us, sweet baby. The Lannisters are all liars. No one will hurt my sweet boy.The hell of it was, she was no head right. Having seen what it took to get here, Tyrion could well opine how it would be for a knight trying to fight his way up in armor, piece stones and arrows poured down from above and enemies contested with him for every step. Nightmare did not set down to describe it. Small wonder the Eyrie had never been taken.Still, Tyrion had been unable to silence himself. Not impregnable, he said, merely inconvenient.Young Robert pointed down, his hand trembling. Youre a liar. Mother, I want to see him fly. Two guardsmen in sky-blue cloaks seized Tyrion by the arms, lifting him off his floor.The gods only know what might have happened then were it not for Catelyn pure(a). Sister, she called out from where she stood below the thrones, I beg you to remember, this man is my prisoner. I will not have him harmed.Lysa Arryn glimpsed at her sister coolly for a moment, the n rose wine and swept down on Tyrion, her long skirts trailing after her. For an instant he feared she would strike him, but instead she commanded them to release him. Her men shoved him to the floor, his legs went out from under him, and Tyrion fell.He must have made quite a sight as he struggled to his knees, only to feel his right leg spasm, move him sprawling once to a greater extent. Laughter boomed up and down the High Hall of the Arryns.My sisters little guest is too weary to stand, Lady Lysa announced. Ser Vardis, take him down to the dungeon. A rest in one of our sky cells will do him much good.The guardsmen jerked him upright. Tyrion Lannister dangled between them, kicking feebly, his face red with shame. I will remember this, he told them all as they carried him off.And so he did, for all the good it did him.At first he had consoled himself that this imprisonment could not last long. Lysa Arryn wanted to humble him, that was all. She would send for him again, and soon. If not her, then Catelyn Stark would want to question him. This time he would guard his tongue more than closely. They refuse not kill him out of hand he was still a Lannister of Casterly Rock, and if they shed his blood, it would mean war. Or so he had told himself.at once he was not so certain.Perhaps his captors only meant to let him rot here, but he feared he did not have the strength to rot for long. He was growing weaker every day, and it was only a matter of time until Mords kicks and blows did him serious harm, provided the screw did not starve him to death first. A a few(prenominal) more nights of cold and hunger, and the blue would start calling to him too.He wondered what was misadventure beyond the walls ( such(prenominal) as they were) of his cell. Lord Tywin would surely have sent out riders when the word reached him. Jaime might be leading a host through the Mountains of the stargaze even now . . . unless he was riding north against Winterfell instead. Did anyon e outdoor(a) the Vale even suspect where Catelyn Stark had taken him? He wondered what Cersei would do when she heard. The king could order him freed, but would Robert listen to his queen or his Hand? Tyrion had no illusions to the highest degree the kings love for his sister.If Cersei kept her wits about her, she would asseverate the king sit in judgment of Tyrion himself. Even Ned Stark could but object to that, not without impugning the honor of the king. And Tyrion would be only too glad to take his chances in a footrace. Whatever murders they might lay at his door, the Starks had no proof of anything so far as he could see. permit them make their case onward the Iron Throne and the maestros of the land. It would be the end of them. If only Cersei were clever enough to see that . . .Tyrion Lannister sighed. His sister was not without a certain low cunning, but her pride blinded her. She would see the insult in this, not the opportunity. And Jaime was even worse, rash a nd headstrong and quick to anger. His brother never untied a knot when he could slash it in two with his sword.He wondered which of them had sent the footpad to silence the Stark boy, and whether they had genuinely conspired at the death of Lord Arryn. If the old Hand had been murdered, it was deftly and subtly done. Men of his age died of sudden illness all the time. In contrast, sending some oaf with a stolen stab after Brandon Stark laid low(p) him as unbelievably clumsy. And wasnt that peculiar, come to think on it . . .Tyrion shivered. Now there was a nasty suspicion. Perhaps the direwolf and the lion were not the only beasts in the woods, and if that was true, someone was using him as a catspaw. Tyrion Lannister hated being used.He would have to get out of here, and soon. His chances of overpowering Mord were small to none, and no one was about to smuggle him a six-hundred-foot-long rope, so he would have to spill himself free. His mouth had gotten him into this cell it co uld damn well get him out.Tyrion campaigned himself to his feet, doing his best to skip the slope of the floor beneath him, with its ever-so-subtle tug toward the edge. He hammered on the door with a fist. Mord he shouted. Turnkey Mord, I want you He had to keep it up a good ten minutes before he heard footsteps. Tyrion stepped back an instant before the door opened with a crash.Making noise, Mord growled, with blood in his eyes. Dangling from one substantial hand was a leather strap, wide and thick, doubled over in his fist.Never show them youre afraid, Tyrion reminded himself. How would you like to be rich? he asked.Mord hit him. He swung the strap backhand, lazily, but the leather caught Tyrion high on the arm. The force of it staggered him, and the disorder made him grit his teeth. No mouth, dwarf man, Mord warned him.Gold, Tyrion said, miming a smile. Casterly Rock is full of atomic number 79 . . . ahhhh . . . This time the blow was a forehand, and Mord draw more of his arm into the swing, making the leather crack and jump. It caught Tyrion in the ribs and dropped him to his knees, wimpering. He squeeze himself to look up at the gaoler. As rich as the Lannisters, he wheezed. Thats what they say, MordMord grunted. The strap whistled through the air and smashed Tyrion full in the face. The pain was so bad he did not remember falling, but when he opened his eyes again he was on the floor of his cell. His ear was ringing, and his mouth was full of blood. He groped for purchase, to push himself up, and his fingers brushed against . . . nothing. Tyrion snatched his hand back as fast as if it had been scalded, and tried his best to stop breathing. He had fallen right on the edge, inches from the blue.More to say? Mord held the strap between his fists and gave it a sharp pull. The snap made Tyrion jump. The turnkey laughed.He wont push me over, Tyrion told himself desperately as he crawled away from the edge. Catelyn Stark wants me alive, he doesnt hardi hood kill me. He wiped the blood off his lips with the back of his hand, grinned, and said, That was a stiff one, Mord. The gaoler squinted at him, trying to decide if he was being mocked. I could make good use of a strong man like you. The strap flew at him, but this time Tyrion was able to cringe away from it. He took a glancing blow to the shoulder, nothing more. Gold, he repeated, scrambling backward like a crab, more gold than youll see here in a lifetime. Enough to buy land, women, horses . . . you could be a lord. Lord Mord. Tyrion hawked up a glob of blood and phlegm and spat it out into the sky.Is no gold, Mord said.Hes hearing Tyrion thought. They relieved me of my purse when they captured me, but the gold is still mine. Catelyn Stark might take a man prisoner, but shed never stoop to sneak him. That wouldnt be honorable. Help me, and all the gold is yours. Mords strap licked out, but it was a halfhearted, desultory swing, slow and contemptuous. Tyrion caught the leather in his hand and held it prisoned. thither will be no risk to you. All you need do is deliver a message.The gaoler yanked his leather strap free of Tyrions grasp. Message, he said, as if he had never heard the word before. His frown made deep creases in his brow.You heard me, my lord. Only carry my word to your lady. Tell her . . . What? What would possibly make Lysa Anyn relent? The inspiration came to Tyrion Lannister suddenly. . . . .tell her that I wish to testify my crimes.Mord raised his arm and Tyrion braced himself for another blow, but the turnkey hesitated. apprehension and greed warred in his eyes. He wanted that gold, yet he feared a trick he had the look of a man who had often been tricked. Is lie, he muttered darkly. Dwarf man cheat me.I will put my promise in writing, Tyrion vowed.Some illiterates held writing in disdain others seemed to have a superstitious reverence for the written word, as if it were some sort of magic. Fortunately, Mord was one of the latter. The turnkey lowered the strap. Writing down gold. Much gold.Oh, much gold, Tyrion certain him. The purse is serious a taste, my friend. My brother wears armor of solid gold plate. In truth, Jaimes armor was gilded steel, but this oaf would never know the difference.Mord fingered his strap thoughtfully, but in the end, he relented and went to fetch account and ink. When the letter was written, the gaoler frowned at it suspiciously. Now deliver my message, Tyrion urged.He was frisson in his sleep when they came for him, late that night. Mord opened the door but kept his silence. Ser Vardis Egen woke Tyrion with the point of his boot. On your feet, Imp. My lady wants to see you.Tyrion rubbed the sleep from his eyes and put on a grimace he scarcely felt. No inquiry she does, but what makes you think I wish to see her?Ser Vardis frowned. Tyrion remembered him well from the eld he had spent at Kings Landing as the captain of the Hands folk guard. A square, plain face, silver hair, a heavy build, and no sense of humour whatsoever. Your wishes are not my concern. On your feet, or Ill have you carried.Tyrion clambered awkwardly to his feet. A cold night, he said casually, and the High Hall is so drafty. I dont wish to catch a chill. Mord, if you would be so good, fetch my cloak.The gaoler squinted at him, face dull with suspicion.My cloak, Tyrion repeated. The shadowskin you took from me for safekeeping. You recall.Get him the damnable cloak, Ser Vardis said.Mord did not dare grumble. He gave Tyrion a glare that promised future retribution, yet he went for the cloak. When he draped it around his prisoners neck, Tyrion smiled. My thanks. I shall think of you whenever I wear it. He flung the trailing end of the long fur over his right shoulder, and felt warm for the first time in days. Lead on, Ser Vardis.The High Hall of the Arryns was aglow with the light of fifty torches, burning in the sconces along the walls. The Lady Lysa wore black silk, with the moon-and- falcon sewn on her breast in pearls. Since she did not look the sort to join the Nights Watch, Tyrion could only imagine that she had decided mourning clothes were appropriate garb for a avowion. Her long auburn hair, woven into an round braid, fell across her left shoulder. The taller throne beside her was empty no doubt the little Lord of the Eyrie was off shaking in his sleep. Tyrion was glad for that much, at least.He bowed deeply and took a moment to glance around the hall. Lady Arryn had summoned her knights and retainers to hear his confession, as he had hoped. He see Ser Brynden Tullys craggy face and Lord Nestor Royces bluff one. Beside Nestor stood a younger man with fierce black side-whiskers who could only be his heir, Ser Albar. Most of the principal houses of the Vale were represented. Tyrion noted Ser Lyn Corbray, slender as a sword, Lord Hunter with his gouty legs, the widowed Lady Waynwood surrounded by her sons. Others sported sigils he did not know broken lanc e, green viper, burning tower, fly chalice.Among the lords of the Vale were several of his companions from the high road Ser Rodrik Cassel, unbalanced from half-healed wounds, stood with Ser Willis Wode beside him. Marillion the singer had found a new woodharp. Tyrion smiled whatever happened here tonight, he did not wish it to happen in secret, and there was no one like a singer for spreading a story near and far.In the canful of the hall, Bronn lounged beneath a pillar. The freeriders black eyes were fixed on Tyrion, and his hand lay lightly on the pommel of his sword. Tyrion gave him a long look, inquire . . .Catelyn Stark spoke first. You wish to confess your crimes, we are told.I do, my lady, Tyrion answered.Lysa Arryn smiled at her sister. The sky cells always break them. The gods can see them there, and there is no darkness to hide in.He does not look broken to me, Lady Catelyn said.Lady Lysa paid her no mind. Say what you will, she commanded Tyrion.And now to roll the dic e, he thought with another quick glance back at Bronn. Where to get? I am a vile little man, I confess it. My crimes and sins are beyond counting, my lords and ladies. I have lain with whores, not once but hundreds of times. I have wished my own lord father dead, and my sister, our gracious queen, as well. Behind him, someone chuckled. I have not always treated my servants with kindness. I have gambled. I have even cheated, I rosiness to admit. I have said many cruel and malicious things about the noble lords and ladies of the court. That drew outright laugh. Once ISilence Lysa Arryns pale round face had turned a burning pink. What do you imagine you are doing, dwarf?Tyrion cocked his head to one side. Why, confessing my crimes, my ladyCatelyn Stark took a step front. You are accused of sending a hired knife to slay my son Bran in his bed, and of conspiring to murder Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King.Tyrion gave a helpless shrug. Those crimes I cannot confess, I fear. I know nothing of any murders.Lady Lysa rose from her weirwood throne. I will not be made mock of. You have had your little jape, Imp. I trust you enjoyed it. Ser Vardis, take him back to the dungeon . . . but this time find him a smaller cell, with a floor more sharply sloped.Is this how justice is done in the Vale? Tyrion roared, so loudly that Ser Vardis froze for an instant. Does honor stop at the Bloody door? You accuse me of crimes, I cut through them, so you throw me into an open cell to freeze and starve. He lifted his head, to give them all a good look at the bruises Mord had left on his face. Where is the kings justice? Is the Eyrie not part of the Seven Kingdoms? I stand accused, you say. Very well. I solicit a trial Let me speak, and let my truth or finesse be seekd openly, in the sight of gods and men.A low murmuring filled the High Hall. He had her, Tyrion knew. He was highborn, the son of the most powerful lord in the realm, the brother of the queen. He could not be de nied a trial. Guardsmen in sky-blue cloaks had started toward Tyrion, but Ser Vardis bid them halt and looked to Lady Lysa.Her small mouth twitched in a petulant smile. If you are tried and found to be guilty of the crimes for which you stand accused, then by the kings own laws, you must wage with your lifes blood. We keep no headsman in the Eyrie, my lord of Lannister. Open the Moon Door.The press of spectators parted. A narrow weirwood door stood between two slender marble pillars, a crescent moon carved in the white wood. Those standing closest edged backward as a oppose of guardsmen marched through. One man removed the heavy bronze bars the second gear pulled the door inward. Their blue cloaks rose snapping from their shoulders, caught in the sudden gust of wind that came howling through the open door. Beyond was the emptiness of the night sky, cloud with cold uncaring stars.Behold the kings justice, Lysa Arryn said. Torch flames fluttered like pennons along the walls, and h ere and there the odd torch guttered out.Lysa, I think this unwise, Catelyn Stark said as the black wind swirled around the hall.Her sister ignored her. You want a trial, my lord of Lannister. Very well, a trial you shall have. My son will listen to whatever you care to say, and you shall hear his judgment. Then you may set off . . . by one door or the other.She looked so pleased with herself, Tyrion thought, and small wonder. How could a trial threaten her, when her weakling son was the lord judge? Tyrion glanced at her Moon Door. Mother, I want to see him fly the boy had said. How many men had the snot-nosed little wretch sent through that door already?I thank you, my good lady, but I see no need to trouble Lord Robert, Tyrion said politely. The gods know the truth of my innocence. I will have their verdict, not the judgment of men. I demand trial by combat.A storm of sudden laughter filled the High Hall of the Arryns. Lord Nestor Royce snorted, Ser Willis chuckled, Ser Lyn Corbr ay guffawed, and others threw back their heads and howled until divide ran down their faces. Marillion clumsily plucked a gay note on his new woodharp with the fingers of his broken hand. Even the wind seemed to whistle with derision as it came skirling through the Moon Door.Lysa Arryns watery blue eyes looked uncertain. He had caught her off balance. You have that right, to be sure.The young knight with the green viper embroidered on his surcoat stepped forward and went to one knee. My lady, I beg the boon of championing your cause.The honor should be mine, old Lord Hunter said. For the love I bore your lord husband, let me avenge his death.My father served Lord Jon faithfully as High flight attendant of the Vale, Ser Albar Royce boomed. Let me serve his son in this.The gods favor the man with the just cause, said Ser Lyn Corbray, yet often that turns out to be the man with the surest sword. We all know who that is. He smiled modestly.A dozen other men all spoke at once, clamorin g to be heard. Tyrion found it disheartening to empathize so many strangers were eager to kill him. Perhaps this had not been such a clever plan after all.Lady Lysa raised a hand for silence. I thank you, my lords, as I know my son would thank you if he were among us. No men in the Seven Kingdoms are as bold and true as the knights of the Vale. Would that I could grant you all this honor. Yet I can choose only one. She gestured. Ser Vardis Egen, you were ever my lord husbands good right hand. You shall be our champion.Ser Vardis had been singularly silent. My lady, he said gravely, drop to one knee, pray give this burden to another, I have no taste for it. The man is no warrior. Look at him. A dwarf, half my size and lame in the legs. It would be shameful to slaughter such a man and call it justice.Oh, excellent, Tyrion thought. I agree.Lysa glared at him. You demanded a trial by combat.And now I demand a champion, such as you have chosen for yourself. My brother Jaime will lief take my part, I know.Your precious Kingslayer is hundreds of leagues from here, snapped Lysa Arryn.Send a bird for him. I will gladly await his arrival.You will face Ser Vardis on the morrow.Singer, Tyrion said, turning to Marillion, when you make a ballad of this, be certain you tell them how Lady Arryn denied the dwarf the right to a champion, and sent him forth lame and bruised and hobbling to face her finest knight.I deny you nothing Lysa Arryn said, her voice peeved and shrill with irritation. Name your champion, Imp . . . if you think you can find a man to die for you.If it is all the same to you, Id sooner find one to kill for me. Tyrion looked over the long hall. No one moved. For a long moment he wondered if it had all been a colossal blunder.Then there was a stirring in the back tooth of the chamber. Ill stand for the dwarf, Bronn called out.