Игра престолов

Tyrion

           Hiscellwasmiserablysmall,evenforadwarf.Notfivefeetaway,whereawalloughttohavebeen,whereawallwouldbeinaproperdungeon,thefloorendedandtheskybegan.Hehadplentyoffreshairandsunshine,andthemoonandstarsbynight,butTyrionwouldhavetradeditallinaninstantforthedankest,gloomiestpitinthebowelsoftheCasterlyRock.

           "Youfly,"Mordhadpromisedhim,whenhe’dshovedhimintothecell."Twentyday,thirty,fiftymaybe.Thenyoufly."

           TheArrynskepttheonlydungeonintherealmwheretheprisonerswerewelcometoescapeatwill.Thatfirstday,aftergirdinguphiscourageforhours,Tyrionhadlainflatonhisstomachandsquirmedtotheedge,topokeouthisheadandlookdown.Skywassixhundredfeetbelow,withnothingbetweenbutemptyair.Ifhecranedhisneckoutasfarasitcouldgo,hecouldseeothercellstohisrightandleftandabovehim.Hewasabeeinastonehoneycomb,andsomeonehadtornoffhiswings.

           Itwascoldinthecell,thewindscreamednightandday,andworstofall,thefloorsloped.Eversoslightly,yetitwasenough.Hewasafraidtoclosehiseyes,afraidthathemightrolloverinhissteepandwakeinsuddenterrorashewentslidingofftheedge.Smallwondertheskycellsdrovemenmad.

           Godssaveme,someprevioustenanthadwrittenonthewallinsomethingthatlookedsuspiciouslylikeblood,theblueiscalling.AtfirstTyrionwonderedwhohe’dbeen,andwhathadbecomeofhim;later,hedecidedthathewouldrathernotknow.

           Ifonlyhehadshuthismouth...

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