Tyrion Lannister struggled to push himself upright, the howling wind slashing at his face like knives.
Frost clung to the hard, icy stone walls, looking almost like salt crust. This "room" had only three walls; the fourth opened into thin air, beyond which loomed sheer cliffs.
"Where is this?"
His memories surged back. No, he was no longer the original Tyrion Lannister. He was a traveler from Earth, reborn into this pitiful body.
He quickly looked down at his arms and legs, then let out a long breath.
They were of normal length.
Yes—this world's Tyrion Lannister was not a dwarf, but a man like any other.
Though there was no mirror or water to see his reflection, not being trapped in a dwarf's body was already a stroke of fortune.
His father was Tywin Lannister, Lord of House Lannister, Great Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West—one of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms.
Tyrion exhaled again. Since he was not a dwarf, this transmigration could almost be called winning the lottery.
Glancing around once more, he confirmed his location—the sky cells of the Eyrie.
Summoning his courage, he edged toward the precipice and looked down.
Some five or six hundred feet below lay a castle. Between his cell and that fortress was nothing but open air and drifting mist, thin as smoke.
Worse, the cliff edge was barely five feet from the opposite wall, and the sloping floor beneath him sent a shiver crawling up his spine.
He scrambled back, pressing himself against the cold stone to put as much distance as possible between himself and the deadly drop. When he turned his head, he saw words scrawled on the wall.
Gods save me.
They must have been smeared there in blood by some former prisoner. The letters stood out starkly against the pale gray stone.
I need to get out of this damned place. The sooner, the better.
He drew a deep breath but still didn't dare stand. His legs and feet were numb from the cold, and with the floor tilting toward the abyss, he feared one wrong move would send him plunging into the void.
So he dragged himself along the ground, forcing himself to ignore the slope that tugged him toward the edge, crawling until he reached the cell door.
It was a battered iron gate, rusted through from too many impurities in the metal. At the bottom was a small square opening meant for passing food.
Tyrion pressed his face against it, straining to peer outside. All he could see was the dim corridor beyond.
Not far away, beneath the flicker of a torch, sat a bulky figure.
"Hey! Anyone there? Is anyone out there?" Tyrion shouted.
The bulky figure stirred.
"Gatekeeper!" Tyrion kept shouting, pounding the iron door with his fists.
Thank the gods he wasn't a dwarf—though he didn't know how long he had been freezing here, his arms still had strength, and each blow made the cell door clang loudly.
At last, the bulky figure heaved himself upright. In the narrow corridor, he couldn't even stand fully straight. The swaying torchlight kept Tyrion from seeing his face clearly.
He lurched toward the door and suddenly kicked it hard, slamming Tyrion's face back into the stone wall.
Then came the turn of a key, followed by a long, chilling creak, and the door swung open.
A round, bloated face with small, dark eyes appeared before him.
"Gatekeeper, I need to talk to you," Tyrion said from the floor, reaching out a hand.
"I'm not 'Gatekeeper'! My name is Mord!" Mord bared a mouthful of brown, rotting teeth. "Too noisy!"
"Alright, Mord, let's talk." Tyrion forced his voice to stay calm, unwilling to let his fear show.
"Do you want to make a fortune?"
"You lying Lust Demon! I'd rather go through your back door!" Mord roared, bloodshot eyes blazing. In one thick hand, he held a wide leather strap, folded double in his palm.
Then the beating began. Mord swung the strap backward, striking Tyrion's arm with a loud crack.
"Damned Lust Demon!" Mord spat, repeating himself. "Lying here waiting to die and still chattering away! In that cramped place, I couldn't even straighten my back!"
"Shut up!" Mord barked, trying to drive Tyrion toward the cliff's edge. "Roll over! Let me get comfortable!"
The strap came down again, but Tyrion rolled across the floor, barely dodging it.
"Gold! Gold!" he shouted, pressing his back against the wall.
"No gold!"
"They took my purse when they caught me, but I am heir to House Lannister!
I will inherit Casterly Rock, I will rule the Westerlands, and I will give you an honorable post where you can earn gold without lifting a finger—so much you won't even be able to stand straight!"
Mord lashed out again, but the blow was slow and careless, dripping with contempt. Tyrion grabbed the strap and held it fast.
"You won't have to risk anything—just deliver a message for me."
The jailer yanked the strap free of his grip. "A message?" he muttered, as if the word itself was strange to him. His brow furrowed, deep lines creasing his forehead.
"Yes, Lord Mord. Whatever I say, you go tell your Lady. Tell her..."
But tell her what? How could he sway Lysa Arryn? Tyrion weighed his options. Confession? Out of the question. He was no longer a dwarf; trial by combat would be a dead end.
Then inspiration struck. "Tell Lady Lysa I want to speak with her about the Mockingbird."
"Mockingbird?" Mord raised his hand, muttering under his breath. Tyrion braced for another strike, but it didn't come. Suspicion and greed battled in the man's small eyes.
He wanted to take the deal, but he was afraid of being tricked. Clearly, this fool had been duped more than once.
"Deceit," Mord grumbled darkly. "The Lust Demon wants to fool me."
"Then let's put it in writing," Tyrion swore.
Some illiterates hated writing, while others revered it like sorcery. Luckily for him, Mord was the latter. The jailer lowered the strap. "Write it down. Gold. Gold you can earn lying down."
"Yes, gold you can earn lying down!" Tyrion promised eagerly. "My dear friend, I swear this gold will make you so rich you won't be able to stand straight—just like in this cramped corridor."
The tunnels of Casterly Rock were just as narrow as these, both carved into the mountain. This idiot would never know the difference.
Mord toyed with the strap a moment longer, then finally gave in and fetched paper and ink.
Once Tyrion had written out his promise, the jailer frowned at the parchment, still doubtful.
"Now go deliver my message," Tyrion urged.