Deep in the Red Keep's Black Cells, there was scarcely a trace of light.
Only a nearly spent candle stub remained on the corridor wall. Its flame flickered feebly in the damp, stifling air, casting a dull yellow halo that threatened to vanish into the darkness at any moment, barely outlining the cold iron bars and rough stone walls.
Tyrion Lannister huddled on the cold, damp floor of his cell, his small body curled inside his oversized, filthy prison clothes, as though trying to scrape some nonexistent warmth from the bone-deep chill.
He stared blankly at the wavering flame, his eyes empty, as if he could read the passage of time in the world outside from the steadily dwindling candle.
The corner of his mouth twitched into a bitterly self-mocking curve that could hardly be called a smile.
"When Eddard Stark was imprisoned here, it must have been much the same." His murmur was as faint as a sigh, swallowed by the thick darkness the moment it left his lips.
"Waiting for a trial whose outcome was already decided, with no hope of reprieve. Crushed beneath despair until you can scarcely breathe, unable even to tell day from night. Nothing to do but watch death approach, without the strength to resist..."
He slowly turned his head, looking past the cold iron bars toward the neighboring cell.
A figure with a missing arm lay curled on a heap of straw in the corner, apparently still unconscious. It was Jaime Lannister, brought in not long ago, bloodied and disheveled.
The mockery at the corner of Tyrion's mouth deepened, his lips so dry they felt ready to split.
He lowered his voice further, until only he could hear it:
"Heh. The Seven certainly know how to play the most absurd jokes. The lions