At the command, the Moon Door between two slender marble pillars creaked open. Carved from whitewood in the shape of a crescent moon, it was held fast with a heavy bronze bar. Six hundred feet below lay Sky Castle, clinging to the mountainside.
Most executions at the Eyrie ended with that door.
Ser Rodrik Cassel rose, trudging forward like an old ox at the plow, his heavy legs carrying him in long, deliberate strides toward Tyrion.
The Lust Demon backed away, thrusting out his left fist to keep him off balance.
Once, twice, they tested each other. Each time Tyrion gave ground, Ser Rodrik pressed on, arms raised.
The old knight threw a punch, but Tyrion sprang backward, slipping just out of reach, his fist cutting through empty air.
Tyrion pivoted left, circling. Ser Rodrik followed, arms high, his steps careful on the uneven floor. The Winterfell master-at-arms kept pressing forward, inch by inch.
A faint smile tugged at Tyrion's lips as he continued to give ground, circling, circling.
His leg's hurt, Tyrion noted, watching the old man's uneven gait.
Ser Rodrik pressed harder, fists flying, but Tyrion moved quicker, leaping lightly over a moss-covered stone. He veered left again, away from the old knight's fists, angling toward his bad leg.
Rodrik reached to grab him, but the distance was too great. Tyrion darted left once more, and the knight turned heavily to follow.
"This man's a coward!" shouted Lord Hunter. "Fight him fair, you craven!" Others took up the cry.
But the ladies' voices rose in opposition, praising Tyrion's nimble footwork.
Somewhere behind Lady Catelyn, the Blackfish had taken position. Her uncle shook his head. "He's making Ser Rodrik chase him. The old man's injured, past his prime. Even the strongest will tire quickly."
Catelyn's chest tightened with regret. She should have urged her sister to keep the Lust Demon rotting in the sky cells. Giving in to anger may have doomed them all.
Ser Rodrik came on with alternating blows, left then right, his strikes fierce and unrelenting.
Tyrion kept slipping back, blocking and sidestepping, feet darting over steps, weaving past pillars, never letting his eyes stray from his opponent.
Catelyn saw it—he was quick, too quick. Ser Rodrik's fists struck only air, while Tyrion managed to land glancing blows on his head and shoulders.
He had the advantage in reach and speed, though his strikes lacked weight, light and harmless as feathers.
"Mama, this isn't a real fight," young Robert whined from the throne. "I want to see them fight for real!"
"Hush, sweetling, you'll see soon enough," his mother promised. "The Lust Demon can't run forever."
Tyrion's mismatched eyes locked on his foe. He knew the old knight dared not meet them. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, letting the sweat soak into the wraps around his fists.
He slipped behind a pillar, then burst out suddenly, still circling left, and flicked a probing strike toward the knight's cheek.
Ser Rodrik blocked it, but clumsily, his breath ragged, sweat pouring down his back and stinging his eyes.
In that blink, Tyrion lashed a kick into his bad leg. The old man grunted, stumbling backward. Tyrion stepped in and kicked the same leg again.
"Ser Rodrik's hurt," the Blackfish said gravely. "But don't fret. The Lust Demon's fists are softer than a maid's touch. He could batter my nose all day without drawing a drop of blood."
No one needed telling. All in the hall could see the white-haired master-at-arms staggering, while Tyrion closed in, step by step.
"My good master-at-arms," the Lust Demon went on chattering, his fists feeling heavier, the wraps around them hardening with each blow. "If I let you go today, would you teach me swordsmanship?"
Ser Rodrik ignored him, only casting a glance at Lady Stark before suddenly lunging forward, trying to seize him.
Tyrion knew the old man outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. If he went down beneath him, it would be over.
He stumbled back in haste, but the master-at-arms seemed to summon the last of his strength, seizing Tyrion's arm and driving a brutal punch into his gut.
Had he eaten breakfast, he might have vomited on the spot.
The strike made him jerk, but his answering fist cracked hard against the knight's jaw.
The plaster had long since hardened. Rodrik Cassel toppled as though struck by a stone hammer, crashing to the ground with a thud.
The hall exploded in uproar. Men shouted, cursed, and railed, while the ladies looked positively pleased.
Tyrion gagged twice, then stepped up to Ser Rodrik. "I envy him—sound body, sound sleep."
He turned to Catelyn Stark. "My lady, shall we end it here? Else I'll break his nose and toss him through the Moon Door."
"Fly! Let him fly!" cried the young Lord of the Eyrie at just the right moment.
Catelyn Stark shivered and gave a reluctant nod. "I yield. Sister, the gods above have judged this man innocent. We have no choice but to let him go. That sly devil, heir to the Mad King—"
Lady Lysa flushed and hurriedly clutched her sister's arm, silencing her.
"It seems the Starks still recall their family honor," Tyrion said, quickly unwrapping the cloth from his fists and tossing it through the Moon Door. "As lofty as the Vale's itself."
"My nickname is the Battering Ram of the Westerlands," he added, winking at the onlookers. "Not just for my fists—but for what's between my legs."
"You should be grateful you didn't face me with real steel. Even my brother shows me respect when we train."
"You promised me he'd fly!" the boy screeched at his mother, trembling violently.
"Not today," Lysa Arryn soothed.
Tyrion nodded. "Handsome men won't be flying today. But this old knight? Perhaps you might consider it."
The Blackfish had already come forward to help Ser Rodrik up. He couldn't fathom how Tyrion's feather-light fists had toppled him with a single blow. "Enough, Lust Demon. One more word, and I swear you'll never leave the Bloody Gate alive."
Tyrion wisely fell silent. The Blackfish was one of the few sharp minds in the hall.
"Guards," Lysa Arryn commanded loudly, "take the Lannister Lust Demon away. Escort him to the Bloody Gate and release him. See that he has horses and provisions enough to reach the Trident, and return all his belongings and weapons. He will need them for the mountain road."
"The mountain road?" Tyrion asked.
A small, triumphant smile curved Lysa's lips. Catelyn suddenly understood—this was little different from a death sentence. Tyrion Lannister surely understood too.
Yet he only bowed politely to Lady Lysa.
"As you command, my lady," he said. "I remember the way."