Tyrion Lannister struggled to prop himself up, the howling gusts of freezing wind slicing across his face like knives.
The hard, icy stone walls were crusted with frost like salt. This "room" had only three walls; the fourth opened directly onto thin air, beyond which lay a sheer cliff.
"Where is this?"
Memories surged into his mind. That's right—he was no longer the original Tyrion Lannister. He was a transmigrator, a traveler from another world called Blue Star, now inhabiting this miserable body.
He hurriedly looked down at his limbs—his arms and legs—then let out a long breath of relief.
They were of normal length.
Yes, the Tyrion Lannister of this world was not a dwarf, but a perfectly normal man.
There was no mirror here, nor water to reflect his face, but simply not having become a dwarf already counted as a blessing amid misfortune.
His father was Tywin Lannister, head of House Lannister, Duke of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West—one of the most powerful men in all the Seven Kingdoms.
Tyrion exhaled again. Since he wasn't a dwarf, this transmigration could be called hitting the jackpot.
Looking around once more, he confirmed where he was: the sky cells of the Eyrie.
Summoning his courage, he edged toward the cliff and peered down.
About five or six hundred feet below sat a castle. Between his cell and that fortress there was nothing but air and a haze like drifting smoke.
Worse still, the cliff edge was only five feet from the opposite wall, and the floor sloped slightly, sending a shiver through him.
He hurriedly backed away and leaned against the stone wall, doing his best to keep as far from the abyss as possible. Turning his head, he saw a line of words:
Gods help me.
Some previous prisoner must have smeared the words in blood. They stood out starkly against the pale stone.
I have to get out of this hellhole. The sooner the better.
He took a deep breath but still didn't dare stand. First, his legs and feet were numb from the cold; second, the slanted floor made him afraid he might slip and tumble into the void.
So he could only drag himself along the ground, ignoring the gentle pull of the incline toward the cliff, crawling to the cell door.
The door was an old iron one, heavily rusted from impurities. Near the bottom was a small square hatch for passing food.
Tyrion pressed his face against the metal and peered through the opening. All he could see was a dim prison corridor.
Not far away, beneath a torch, sat a bulky figure.
"Hey! Anyone there? Is anyone there?" Tyrion shouted.
The heavy silhouette twitched.
"Guard!" he continued, pounding on the iron door with his fists.
Thankfully he wasn't a dwarf. Even after who knew how long in the cold, his arms were still strong, the blows making the door clang loudly.
At last the massive body lifted itself. In the cramped corridor the man couldn't even fully straighten his back. The flickering torchlight made it impossible for Tyrion to see his face clearly.
He staggered toward the cell and kicked the door, sending Tyrion's face snapping back as he tumbled against the stone wall.
Then, with the grinding squeal of turning keys, the door creaked open.
A bloated round face with tiny dark eyes appeared before him.
"Guard, I want to talk to you," Tyrion said, lying on his back and extending an arm.
"I'm not 'guard'! My name's Mord!" Mord bared a mouthful of brown, rotten teeth. "Too noisy!"
"Alright, Mord. Let's talk," Tyrion said, struggling to keep his tone steady, unwilling to show fear."Do you want to get rich?"
"You lying succubus! I'd like to take you from behind instead!" Mord roared, eyes bloodshot. In one thick hand he held a wide leather belt folded over.
The beating came immediately. The belt lashed across Tyrion's arm.
"Damn succubus!" Mord repeated. "You lie here waiting to die and still won't shut up, while I'm stuck in that cramped place where I can't even straighten my back!"
"Shut up!" Mord shouted, trying to shove Tyrion toward the cliff. "Roll over—let me enjoy myself!"
He swung again, but Tyrion rolled across the floor and avoided the blow.
"Gold! Gold!" Tyrion shouted, his back pressed to the wall.
"No gold!"
"They took my purse when they arrested me, but I'm the heir of House Lannister!"
"I will inherit Casterly Rock. I will rule the West. I'll give you a respectable job—one where you can earn gold lying down, so much gold you won't be able to straighten your back!"
The belt came again, but this time the swing was lazy, slow, full of contempt. Tyrion grabbed it—now the guard was the one caught.
"You don't have to take any risks. Just deliver a message for me."
The jailer yanked the belt back. "A message?" he said, as though he'd never heard the words before. His brow furrowed into deep creases.
"Yes, Lord Mord. Just repeat exactly what I say to your lady. Tell her…"
Tell her what? How could he move Lysa Arryn? Tyrion Lannister thought.Confess? Impossible. Since he wasn't a dwarf, a trial by combat would be a death sentence.
Then inspiration struck.
"Tell Lady Lysa I want to talk to her about the 'mockingbird.'"
"Mockingbird?" Mord muttered, raising his hand. Tyrion braced for another blow, but it never came. Suspicion and greed battled in the man's eyes.
He wanted to switch sides, but feared being tricked. Apparently the fool had been fooled many times before.
"Lies," he muttered darkly. "Succubus wants to trick me."
"We can write it down in black and white," Tyrion swore.
Some illiterate people hate writing; others revere it like magic. Luckily, Mord belonged to the latter. He lowered the belt.
"Write the gold. Gold I can earn lying down."
"Yes, gold you can earn lying down!" Tyrion assured him. "My dear friend, I promise you'll earn so much gold you won't be able to straighten your back—just like in this little corridor."
The tunnels of Casterly Rock were just as cramped; both castles were built into mountains. The fool wouldn't know the difference.
Mord toyed with the belt, but finally fetched paper and ink.
After Tyrion finished writing the guarantee, the jailer frowned suspiciously at the sheet.
"Now go deliver my message," Tyrion urged.