Tyrion gazed up at the sky. The man spat. It was a cold and lonely sound, full of melancholy and despair. The best way was to start from the godswood, shinny up the tall sentinel, and cross over the armory and the guards hall, leaping roof to roof, barefoot so the guards wouldn't hear you overhead.
And he said there were other meanings as well. Tyrion kept on the fringes of the fight, sliding from rock to rock and darting out of the shadows to hew at the legs of passing horses. He was wandering the empty castle, searching for his father, descending into the crypts. By then my strength was fled, my eyes grown dim, yet that last choice was as cruel as the first.
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