嶽風因為某些原因，給人當了贅婿，端茶倒水被人瞧不起，隱忍度日，直到有一天…
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豪門戰神
最佳女婿
神級龍衛
龍門兵少
重生霸道嫡女
總裁男神偷我心
絕美夜色
乘龍快婿
古術醫修
夜少愛妻如命
愛過才懂情濃
冰冷少帥荒唐妻
情雲北去慕星辰
Tyrion Lannister was starved, but he refused to let this brute see him cringe. 「A leg of lamb would be pleasant,」 he said, from the heap of soiled straw in the corner of his cell. 「Perhaps a dish of peas and onions, some fresh baked bread with butter, and a flagon of mulled wine to wash it down. Or beer, if that’s easier. I try not to be overly particular.」
「Is beans,」 Mord said. 「Here.」 He held out the plate.
Tyrion sighed. The turnkey was twenty stone of gross stupidity, with brown rotting teeth and small dark eyes. The left side of his face was slick with scar where an axe had cut off his ear and part of his cheek. He was as predictable as he was ugly, but Tyrion was hungry. He reached up for the plate.
Mord jerked it away, grinning. 「Is here,」 he said, holding it out beyond Tyrion’s reach.
The dwarf climbed stiffly to his feet, every joint aching. 「Must we play the same fool’s game with every meal?」 He made another grab for the beans.
Mord shambled backward, grinning through his rotten teeth. 「Is here, dwarf man.」 He held the plate out at arm’s length, over the edge where the cell ended and the sky began. 「You not want eat? Here. Come take.」
Tyrion’s arms were too short to reach the plate, and he was not about to step that close to the edge. All it would take would be a quick shove of Mord’s heavy white belly, and he would end up a sickening red splotch on the stones of Sky, like so many other prisoners of the Eyrie over the centuries. 「Come to think on it, I’m not hungry after all,」 he declared, retreating to the corner of his cell.
Mord grunted and opened his thick fingers. The wind took the plate, flipping it over as it fell. A handful of beans sprayed back at them as the food tumbled out of sight. The turnkey laughed, his gut shaking like a bowl of pudding.
Tyrion felt a pang of rage. 「You fucking son of a pox-ridden ass,」 he spat. 「I hope you die of a bloody flux.」
For that, Mord gave him a kick, driving a steel-toed boot hard into Tyrion’s ribs on the way out. 「I take it back!」 he gasped as he doubled over on the straw. 「I』ll kill you myself, I swear it!」 The heavy iron-bound door slammed shut. Tyrion heard the rattle of keys.
For a small man, he had been cursed with a dangerously big mouth, he reflected as he crawled back to his corner of what the Arryns laughably called their dungeon. He huddled beneath the thin blanket that was his only bedding, staring out at a blaze of empty blue sky and distant mountains that seemed to go on forever, wishing he still had the shadowskin cloak he』d won from Marillion at dice, after the singer had stolen it off the body of that brigand chief. The skin had smelled of blood and mold, but it was warm and thick. Mord had taken it the moment he laid eyes on it.
The wind tugged at his blanket with gusts sharp as talons. His cell was miserably small, even for a dwarf. Not five feet away, where a wall ought to have been, where a wall would be in a proper dungeon, the floor ended and the sky began. He had plenty of fresh air and sunshine, and the moon and stars by night, but Tyrion would have traded it all in an instant for the dankest, gloomiest pit in the bowels of the Casterly Rock.
「You fly,」 Mord had promised him, when he』d shoved him into the cell. 「Twenty day, thirty, fifty maybe. Then you fly.」
The Arryns kept the only dungeon in the realm where the prisoners were welcome to escape at will. That first day, after girding up his courage for hours, Tyrion had lain flat on his stomach and squirmed to the edge, to poke out his head and look down. Sky was six hundred feet below, with nothing between but empty air. If he craned his neck out as far as it could go, he could see other cells to his right and left and above him. He was a bee in a stone honeycomb, and someone had torn off his wings.
It was cold in the cell, the wind screamed night and day, and worst of all, the floor sloped. Ever so slightly, yet it was enough. He was afraid to close his eyes, afraid that he might roll over in his steep and wake in sudden terror as he went sliding off the edge. Small wonder the sky cells drove men mad.
Gods save me, some previous tenant had written on the wall in something that looked suspiciously like blood, the blue is calling. At first Tyrion wondered who he』d been, and what had become of him; later, he decided that he would rather not know.
If only he had shut his mouth . . .
The wretched boy had started it, looking down on him from a throne of carved weirwood beneath the moon-and-falcon banners of House Arryn. Tyrion Lannister had been looked down on all his life, but seldom by rheumy-eyed six-year-olds who needed to stuff fat cushions under their cheeks to lift them to the height of a man. 「Is he the bad man?」 the boy had asked, clutching his doll.
「He is,」 the Lady Lysa had said from the lesser throne beside him. She was all in blue, powdered and perfumed for the suitors who filled her court.