In the long corridor, Tyrion found himself thinking that though the Eyrie was smaller than the strongholds of other great houses in Westeros, it was said to be unassailable.
Which was harder to storm—Casterly Rock or the Eyrie?
He decided it was his own home. Casterly Rock had never fallen. It was the largest, richest, and best-fortified castle in the Seven Kingdoms.
"Don't even think about escape," Ser Vardis said as he opened a door and ushered Tyrion inside. "I won't post guards again. I expect you to keep your word—and your honor."
Clearly, he was certain Tyrion wouldn't dare flee under such conditions.
"I will," Tyrion nodded, though his thoughts ran elsewhere. "But I'd like candles and water."
"Water to drink, and water to wash."
"I'll have it sent," Ser Vardis agreed. "Then, Lust Demon, we'll meet again tomorrow."
He closed the door. There was no click of a lock.
Tyrion crouched in the corner. Even with a plan forming in his head, his heart beat anxiously.
He didn't know how long had passed before footsteps sounded again outside.
"Lord Tyrion Lannister," a voice called, "are you awake?"
"I'm awake. That sounds like Bronn. State your business," Tyrion replied.
"Glad you remembered my voice," the sellsword said. "I was sent with candles and water, on the orders of… well, a Ser. The name hardly matters."
"Then come in," Tyrion said.
The door swung open. Bronn entered, a candle in his left hand, a waterskin in his right. The flickering light cast his features into sharp relief.
He had the lean, hungry look of a wolf—black hair, dark eyes, and a rough stubble across his jaw.
A servant followed, struggling with a wooden basin brimming with water.
"Set it there," Bronn ordered, pointing to an empty spot. He let wax drip onto the head of a plaster statue, fixing the candle atop it.
The wavering light made the statues seem to stir, to dance. The servant, unnerved, clattered the basin to the floor.
"You may go," Bronn told him. The man hurried out, pulling the door closed behind him.
For a while the two men regarded each other in silence. Then Bronn spoke.
"You're cautious."
"Of course," Tyrion said. "I half-expected Lady Catelyn Stark had bought you to take my head. But no—that sort of thing is my style, not hers."
"True enough," Bronn admitted. "I came on my own. No one paid me."
"Lady Stark paid you nothing? Not even for dragging me here?" Tyrion asked.
"She paid, but barely. A pittance." Bronn named a sum.
"By the Seven!" Tyrion exclaimed, though he hadn't the faintest idea what the amount meant. He feigned outrage anyway. "I spend more than that on a single night's drinking!"
Bronn gave a slow nod, his dark eyes growing deeper still.
"But rest assured, if you work for me, your pay will be far richer than what that stingy woman gave you." Tyrion eyed the waterskin, licking his lips. "A Lannister always pays his debts."
Bronn nodded and handed it over.
Tyrion drank deeply, wiping his mouth when he was done. Bronn then pulled bread and dried meat from his tunic. "This didn't come from that Ser."
"Vardis," Tyrion said as he took the food. "This is worth at least a silver stag. But when a Lannister gets help in his hour of need, the price is a golden dragon."
A smile tugged at Bronn's face. "But if you can't get out of here, no price means anything."
"True," Tyrion agreed, chewing as he spoke. "So you came here to help me?"
"If you need a champion, I'd gladly fight for you," Bronn said. "I know your offer would be generous."
"If Ser Vardis were my opponent, I'd choose you," Tyrion said. "As for Rodrik—that fat old man, heavy, aged, and wounded—I don't see him as much of a threat."
"But he's strong," Bronn said, sliding down to sit against the door. "If he gets hold of you, expect a solid thrashing."
Tyrion watched him lean his head back against the door. Clever—he could hear footsteps more clearly that way and block any sudden entry.
"If he were ten years younger, he'd be a dangerous foe," Tyrion mused. "But he's twice my age.
I'll circle him, wear down his strength and patience. With his wounds, he can't last in a long fight.
And I've the height, the reach, the speed, the agility. I'll play to my strengths. The old wolf won't bare his teeth before a young lion."
"Speed beats strength," Tyrion concluded.
"Well said," Bronn nodded, approving. "If I hadn't seen your hands, I'd swear you handled a sword like the Kingslayer."
Tyrion chuckled, wiping his mouth. The food was gone. He cleaned his hands on his ragged clothes—hands smooth and uncalloused, hands that had never held a sword in earnest.
"Here's another thought," Tyrion said. "We could flee tonight. You get me to the Bloody Gate, find my father, and I'll pay you a fortune."
Bronn laughed and shook his head. "Without horses, we'd be caught before ten leagues. I won't risk my neck for you.
And if we are caught, you might live—but I'd almost certainly end up hanging outside the Bloody Gate."
"You little Lust Demon, don't try to trick me. I'm not falling for that," Bronn went on. "I'm not like that gullible jailer you've got wrapped around your finger."
"Mord?" Tyrion asked. "What about him? What did he say?"
"Passed him earlier. He was muttering about gold." Bronn paused, then burst into laughter. "And your back door."
"Seems being handsome isn't always a blessing," Tyrion sighed. "That fat fool dreams too well—if I win, he gets gold, if I lose, he gets to indulge his perversions."
"Your plan is sound, no need to overcomplicate it," Bronn said, pushing the door open. "But nothing's foolproof. Even the best plan only works if carried out perfectly. Slip once, and..."
"Don't worry—I won't let your investment go to waste," Tyrion assured him. "Besides, I have a secret weapon."
"Oh?" Bronn stopped.
"I hadn't planned to tell you yet," Tyrion said.
"Then let me guess." Bronn winked slyly. "You'll use magic—have one of those plaster men fight in your place, Lust Demon?"