Late that night, when they came for Tyrion, he was shivering in his sleep.
In the sky cell, the wind howled, its biting chill seeping through the thick stone walls and straight into his bones.
Mord opened the door without a word. Ser Vardis Egen prodded Tyrion awake with the toe of his boot. "Lust Demon, get up. My Lady wishes to see you."
Tyrion rubbed the sleep from his eyes, deliberately putting on a look of annoyance. "Of course she does. But at this hour? What could she possibly want? I've no taste for widows."
Ser Vardis frowned. Years ago, he had served as Captain of the Guard to the Hand of the King in King's Landing, and Tyrion remembered him clearly. A broad, plain face, silver hair, a stocky frame—and not the slightest sense of humor.
"Spare me your jests, Lust Demon. Show some respect, or I'll see you rot in here."
Tyrion climbed to his feet and obediently followed Vardis out of the cell.
Mord's beady eyes stayed fixed on his back, reminding him to keep his promise.
They walked the long corridors of the Eyrie, torches mounted on the walls every twelve paces. By Tyrion's count, fifty-five torches passed before they reached their destination.
It was a small, unremarkable chamber inside the castle, though four knights in heavy armor stood guard outside the door.
"All is ready," rasped a middle-aged man.
As they drew closer, Tyrion recognized the weathered face and gray hair—Brynden "Blackfish" Tully.
Vardis opened the door, gestured for Tyrion to enter, and issued a warning.
"Lust Demon, watch yourself. If you try anything..."
"I know," Tyrion cut in. "You'll come storming in and hack me to pieces."
He winked at the Blackfish. "Four of you, plus the Blackfish. I'm under no illusions about my chances."
Vardis gave a curt nod, shoved him inside, and the door closed softly behind him.
The chamber was pitch-dark. It took Tyrion a moment to adjust. Statues filled the space, their surfaces smooth and cold beneath his touch—snow-white plaster figures.
Men and women alike, though their faces were blurred. Even if he could see them clearly, he doubted he would recognize them. These were surely likenesses of the Arryn line.
"Tyrion Lannister."
The voice came from the corner, making him start.
He stepped closer and saw Lady Lysa, dressed in a black gown of fine silk, the crescent falcon crest embroidered with pearls across her chest. Her long hair was braided intricately, draped over her left shoulder, though in the darkness its auburn color was hidden.
"My Lady." Tyrion bowed. "It is an honor to meet you here."
"What is it you want to discuss?" Lysa Arryn asked directly. "The Mockingbird? I don't understand what you mean. If you mean to confess..."
"No. You know perfectly well what I mean," Tyrion interrupted. "The Mockingbird, carved from the Titan's giant head, is my ally."
"No." Lady Arryn's voice rose sharply. "You are the butcher who murdered my husband! He would never make a friend of such a creature!"
"Yes, yes," Tyrion said quickly. "Some Lannisters may indeed threaten you. But that doesn't mean Lord Baelish and I cannot be friends."
Two-faced, lying woman.
He cursed her silently. Of course he knew it was Lysa Arryn herself who had poisoned Jon Arryn—his own wife!
This madwoman. Only the mention of Petyr Baelish might bring her back to her senses.
"You're lying!" Lysa shot back, unwilling to believe him.
Tyrion raised a finger to his lips, urging her to keep her voice down.
"I did not lie, Lady Arryn." Tyrion's eyes were sharp with tension and caution. He wasn't trying to convince her outright, but to take a more indirect path.
"I don't know which Lannisters conspired against you, but it was certainly not me. I have been friends with Lord Petyr for many years—even..."
"Even if you are friends with Petyr, that does not mean I can spare you." Lady Lysa's voice dropped low at the mention of Littlefinger, as though afraid someone might overhear.
"Even what?" she pressed.
"Even..." Tyrion leaned closer, lowering his voice. "We planned for me to take his place as Master of Coin, so that he could return to the Vale and aid you."
"Ah!" Lady Arryn let out a startled gasp, making Tyrion flinch.
He feared the sound might carry outside, that the Blackfish would burst in and cut him down.
"Is that true?" Lady Arryn asked eagerly.
The excitement in her tone gave her away. Tyrion knew the idea tempted her greatly. If it meant Petyr Baelish could return to the Vale, she would have no qualms about offending her sister and setting him free.
"Every word of it, my lady," Tyrion assured her. "If I return to King's Landing, Lord Baelish will soon follow you back to the Vale. I give you my word."
Lysa paced the chamber. His words had struck home, though she still wavered.
"My lady, I know how badly you need Lord Baelish's help," Tyrion went on, his hand brushing against one of the plaster statues nearby.
It was life-sized, male, shorter and thinner than himself, smooth-chested—yet with a manhood carved unusually large.
"When I return to King's Landing, you won't have to make do with these cold plaster statues here in the Eyrie."
"That one was made in Petyr's likeness," Lady Arryn said.
Tyrion studied the statue from top to bottom. "My lady, I honestly couldn't tell, because... because Lord Baelish bears a long scar across his chest..."
"You know of that?" Lady Arryn asked, surprised.
"Friends are always honest with one another," Tyrion replied. "Though he never told me how he came by it."
"It doesn't matter where it came from." Lady Lysa stepped forward, running her hand over the statue's chest, her touch lingering. "In my heart, Petyr is perfect. That is why I left the scar uncarved."
Tyrion knew then that he had won her over.
Lysa Arryn stood silent before the statue for a moment before turning to him.
"I will judge you soon. Be wise, Lust Demon. Wait here."
She pushed open the door and left. Two armored men followed, their footsteps clattering down the corridor.
"They've left two guards at the door," Tyrion thought, listening to the sound of her steps fading away, already planning his next move.