Tyrion Lannister.
The name set Lynn's nerves on edge again, despite his exhaustion after a night of indulgence.
He laid the letter facedown and watched the short figure enter the study.
"My apologies for disturbing you so early."
Tyrion bowed with impeccable courtesy.
His mismatched eyes, one green and one black, surveyed the study with keen interest.
"I've heard Littlefinger's taste has always been rather poor. It seems the rumors were true."
He pointed to a tacky oil painting on the wall depicting a maiden picking flowers.
"You'd do better to burn it and replace it with a map of King's Landing, or hang up a few Valyrian steel swords. Anything would be better than that."
Lynn motioned for him to sit and poured him a glass of wine.
"You certainly won a hefty sum of gold dragons from Lord Baelish."
Tyrion took the glass and drained it.
"So, have you come to collect his debt?" Lynn asked.
"Collect his debt?"
Tyrion gave a short laugh.
"I'd be delighted if you stripped him of his last pair of breeches."
Tyrion set his glass down hard on the table, and the smile vanished from his face.
"I'm not here to drink, Ser Lynn."
"I'm here to buy an answer."
Tyrion's gaze sharpened.
"I'm certain you possess some power of prophecy, and that you also know what happened in the past."
"I don't care how you know. I only want to ask one thing."
A trace of bitterness suddenly entered Tyrion's voice.
"My... my first wife, Tysha."
Saying that name seemed to drain him of every last scrap of courage.
"What happened... was she really someone my father had arranged for me?"
A deathly silence settled over the study.
The raven outside the window gave a few caws that sounded especially grating.