Somewhere in the great stone maze of Winterfell,
a wolf howled. The sound hung over the castle like a flag of
mourning.
Tyrion Lannister looked up from his books and shivered, though
the library was snug and warm. Something about the howling of a
wolf took a man right out of his here and now and left him in a
dark forest of the mind, running naked before the pack.
When the direwolf howled again, Tyrion shut the heavy
leatherbound cover on the book he was reading, a hundred-year-old
discourse on the changing of the seasons by a long-dead maester. He
covered a yawn with the back of his hand. His reading lamp was
flickering, its oil all but gone, as dawn light leaked through the
high windows. He had been at it all night, but that was nothing
new. Tyrion Lannister was not much a one for sleeping.
His legs were stiff and sore as he eased down off the bench. He
massaged some life back into them and limped heavily to the table
where the septon was snoring softly, his head pillowed on an open
book in front of him. Tyrion glanced at the title. A life of the
Grand Maester Aethelmure, no wonder. “Chayle,” he said
softly. The young man jerked up, blinking, confused, the crystal of
his order swinging wildly on its silver chain. “I’m off
to break my fast. See that you return the books to the shelves. Be
gentle with the Valyrian scrolls, the parchment is very dry.
Ayrmidon’s Engines of War is quite rare, and yours is the
only complete copy I’ve ever seen.” Chayle gaped at
him, still half-asleep. Patiently, Tyrion repeated his instructions,
then clapped the septon on the shoulder and left him to his
tasks.
Outside, Tyrion swallowed a lungful of the cold morning air and
began his laborious descent of the steep stone steps that
corkscrewed around the exterior of the library tower. It was slow
going; the steps were cut high and narrow, while his legs were
short and twisted. The rising sun had not yet cleared the walls of
Winterfell, but the men were already hard at it in the yard below.
Sandor Clegane’s rasping voice drifted up to him. “The
boy is a long time dying. I wish he would be quicker about
it.”
Tyrion glanced down and saw the Hound standing with young
Joffrey as squires swarmed around them. “At least he dies
quietly,” the prince replied. “It’s the wolf that
makes the noise. I could scarce sleep last night.”
Clegane cast a long shadow across the hard-packed earth as his
squire lowered the black helm over his head. “I could silence
the creature, if it please you,” he said through his open
visor. His boy placed a longsword in his hand. He tested the weight
of it, slicing at the cold morning air. Behind him, the yard rang
to the clangor of steel on steel.
The notion seemed to delight the prince. “Send a dog to
kill a dog!” he exclaimed. “Winterfell is so infested
with wolves, the Starks would never miss one.”
Tyrion hopped off the last step onto the yard. “I beg to
differ, nephew,” he said. “The Starks can count past
six. Unlike some princes I might name.”
Joffrey had the grace at least to blush.
“A voice from nowhere,” Sandor said. He peered
through his helm, looking this way and that. “Spirits of the
air!”
The prince laughed, as he always laughed when his bodyguard did
this mummer’s farce. Tyrion was used to it. “Down
here.”
The tall man peered down at the ground, and pretended to notice
him. “The little lord Tyrion,” he said. “My
pardons. I did not see you standing there.”
“I am in no mood for your insolence today.” Tyrion
turned to his nephew. “Joffrey, it is past time you called on
Lord Eddard and his lady, to offer them your comfort.”
Joffrey looked as petulant as only a boy prince can look.
“What good will my comfort do them?”
“None,” Tyrion said. “Yet it is expected of
you. Your absence has been noted.”
“The Stark boy is nothing to me,” Joffrey said.
“I cannot abide the wailing of women.”
Tyrion Lannister reached up and slapped his nephew hard across
the face. The boy’s cheek began to redden.
“One word,” Tyrion said, “and I will hit you
again.”
“I’m going to tell Mother!” Joffrey
exclaimed.
Tyrion hit him again. Now both cheeks flamed.
“You tell your mother,” Tyrion told him. “But
first you get yourself to Lord and Lady Stark, and you fall to your
knees in front of them, and you tell them how very sorry you are,
and that you are at their service if there is the slightest thing
you can do for them or theirs in this desperate hour, and that all
your prayers go with them. Do you understand? Do you?”
The boy looked as though he was going to cry. Instead, he
managed a weak nod. Then he turned and fled headlong from the yard,
holding his cheek. Tyrion watched him run.
A shadow fell across his face. He turned to find Clegane looming
overhead like a cliff. His soot-dark armor seemed to blot out the
sun. He had lowered the visor on his helm. It was fashioned in the
likeness of a snarling black hound, fearsome to behold, but Tyrion
had always thought it a great improvement over Clegane’s
hideously burned face.
“The prince will remember that, little lord,” the
Hound warned him. The helm turned his laugh into a hollow
rumble.
“I pray he does,” Tyrion Lannister replied.
“If he forgets, be a good dog and remind him.” He
glanced around the courtyard. “Do you know where I might find
my brother?”
“Breaking fast with the queen.”
“Ah,” Tyrion said. He gave Sandor Clegane a
perfunctory nod and walked away as briskly as his stunted legs
would carry him, whistling. He pitied the first knight to try the
Hound today. The man did have a temper.
A cold, cheerless meal had been laid out in the morning room of
the Guest House. Jaime sat at table with Cersei and the children,
talking in low, hushed voices.
“Is Robert still abed?” Tyrion asked as he seated
himself, uninvited, at the table.
His sister peered at him with the same expression of faint
distaste she had worn since the day he was born. “The king
has not slept at all,” she told him. “He is with Lord
Eddard. He has taken their sorrow deeply to heart.”
“He has a large heart, our Robert,” Jaime said with
a lazy smile. There was very little that Jaime took seriously.
Tyrion knew that about his brother, and forgave it. During all the
terrible long years of his childhood, only Jaime had ever shown him
the smallest measure of affection or respect, and for that Tyrion
was willing to forgive him most anything.
A servant approached. “Bread,” Tyrion told him,
“and two of those little fish, and a mug of that good dark
beer to wash them down. Oh, and some bacon. Burn it until it turns
black.” The man bowed and moved off. Tyrion turned back to
his siblings. Twins, male and female. They looked very much the
part this morning. Both had chosen a deep green that matched their
eyes. Their blond curls were all a fashionable tumble, and gold
ornaments shone at wrists and fingers and throats.
Tyrion wondered what it would be like to have a twin, and
decided that he would rather not know. Bad enough to face himself
in a looking glass every day. Another him was a thought too
dreadful to contemplate.
Prince Tommen spoke up. “Do you have news of Bran,
Uncle?”
“I stopped by the sickroom last night,” Tyrion
announced. “There was no change. The maester thought that a
hopeful sign.”
“I don’t want Brandon to die,” Tommen said
timorously. He was a sweet boy. Not like his brother, but then
Jaime and Tyrion were somewhat less than peas in a pod
themselves.
“Lord Eddard had a brother named Brandon as well,”
Jaime mused. “One of the hostages murdered by Targaryen. It
seems to be an unlucky name.”
“Oh, not so unlucky as all that, surely,” Tyrion
said. The servant brought his plate. He ripped off a chunk of black
bread.
Cersei was studying him warily. “What do you
mean?”
Tyrion gave her a crooked smile. “Why, only that Tommen
may get his wish. The maester thinks the boy may yet live.”
He took a sip of beer.
Myrcella gave a happy gasp, and Tommen smiled nervously, but it
was not the children Tyrion was watching. The glance that passed
between Jaime and Cersei lasted no more than a second, but he did
not miss it. Then his sister dropped her gaze to the table.
“That is no mercy. These northern gods are cruel to let the
child linger in such pain.”
“What were the maester’s words?” Jaime
asked.
The bacon crunched when he bit into it. Tyrion chewed
thoughtfully for a moment and said, “He thinks that if the
boy were going to die, he would have done so already. It has been
four days with no change.”
“Will Bran get better, Uncle?” little Myrcella
asked. She had all of her mother’s beauty, and none of her
nature.
“His back is broken, little one,” Tyrion told her.
“The fall shattered his legs as well. They keep him alive
with honey and water, or he would starve to death. Perhaps, if he
wakes, he will be able to eat real food, but he will never walk
again.”
“If he wakes,” Cersei repeated. “Is that
likely?”
“The gods alone know,” Tyrion told her. “The
maester only hopes.” He chewed some more bread. “I
would swear that wolf of his is keeping the boy alive. The creature
is outside his window day and night, howling. Every time they chase
it away, it returns. The maester said they closed the window once,
to shut out the noise, and Bran seemed to weaken. When they opened
it again, his heart beat stronger.”
The queen shuddered. “There is something unnatural about
those animals,” she said. “They are dangerous. I will
not have any of them coming south with us.”
Jaime said, “You’ll have a hard time stopping them,
sister. They follow those girls everywhere.”
Tyrion started on his fish. “Are you leaving soon,
then?”
“Not near soon enough,” Cersei said. Then she
frowned. “Are we leaving?” she echoed. “What
about you? Gods, don’t tell me you are staying
here?”
Tyrion shrugged. “Benjen Stark is returning to the
Night’s Watch with his brother’s bastard. I have a mind
to go with them and see this Wall we have all heard so much
of.”
Jaime smiled. “I hope you’re not thinking of taking
the black on us, sweet brother.”
Tyrion laughed. “What, me, celibate? The whores would go
begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. No, I just want to stand on
top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world.”
Cersei stood abruptly. “The children don’t need to
hear this filth. Tommen, Myrcella, come.” She strode briskly
from the morning room, her train and her pups trailing behind
her.
Jaime Lannister regarded his brother thoughtfully with those
cool green eyes. “Stark will never consent to leave
Winterfell with his son lingering in the shadow of
death.”
“He will if Robert commands it,” Tyrion said.
“And Robert will command it. There is nothing Lord Eddard can
do for the boy in any case.”
“He could end his torment,” Jaime said. “I
would, if it were my son. It would be a mercy.”
“I advise against putting that suggestion to Lord Eddard,
sweet brother,” Tyrion said. “He would not take it
kindly.”
“Even if the boy does live, he will be a cripple. Worse
than a cripple. A grotesque. Give me a good clean death.”
Tyrion replied with a shrug that accentuated the twist of his
shoulders. “Speaking for the grotesques,” he said,
“I beg to differ. Death is so terribly final, while life is
full of possibilities.”
Jaime smiled. “You are a perverse little imp, aren’t
you?”
“Oh, yes,” Tyrion admitted. “I hope the boy
does wake. I would be most interested to hear what he might have to
say.”
His brother’s smile curdled like sour milk. “Tyrion,
my sweet brother,” he said darkly, “there are times
when you give me cause to wonder whose side you are on.”
Tyrion’s mouth was full of bread and fish. He took a
swallow of strong black beer to wash it all down, and grinned up
wolfishly at Jaime, “Why, Jaime, my sweet brother,” he
said, “you wound me. You know how much I love my
family.”
Somewhere in the great stone maze of Winterfell,
a wolf howled. The sound hung over the castle like a flag of
mourning.
Tyrion Lannister looked up from his books and shivered, though
the library was snug and warm. Something about the howling of a
wolf took a man right out of his here and now and left him in a
dark forest of the mind, running naked before the pack.
When the direwolf howled again, Tyrion shut the heavy
leatherbound cover on the book he was reading, a hundred-year-old
discourse on the changing of the seasons by a long-dead maester. He
covered a yawn with the back of his hand. His reading lamp was
flickering, its oil all but gone, as dawn light leaked through the
high windows. He had been at it all night, but that was nothing
new. Tyrion Lannister was not much a one for sleeping.
His legs were stiff and sore as he eased down off the bench. He
massaged some life back into them and limped heavily to the table
where the septon was snoring softly, his head pillowed on an open
book in front of him. Tyrion glanced at the title. A life of the
Grand Maester Aethelmure, no wonder. “Chayle,” he said
softly. The young man jerked up, blinking, confused, the crystal of
his order swinging wildly on its silver chain. “I’m off
to break my fast. See that you return the books to the shelves. Be
gentle with the Valyrian scrolls, the parchment is very dry.
Ayrmidon’s Engines of War is quite rare, and yours is the
only complete copy I’ve ever seen.” Chayle gaped at
him, still half-asleep. Patiently, Tyrion repeated his instructions,
then clapped the septon on the shoulder and left him to his
tasks.
Outside, Tyrion swallowed a lungful of the cold morning air and
began his laborious descent of the steep stone steps that
corkscrewed around the exterior of the library tower. It was slow
going; the steps were cut high and narrow, while his legs were
short and twisted. The rising sun had not yet cleared the walls of
Winterfell, but the men were already hard at it in the yard below.
Sandor Clegane’s rasping voice drifted up to him. “The
boy is a long time dying. I wish he would be quicker about
it.”
Tyrion glanced down and saw the Hound standing with young
Joffrey as squires swarmed around them. “At least he dies
quietly,” the prince replied. “It’s the wolf that
makes the noise. I could scarce sleep last night.”
Clegane cast a long shadow across the hard-packed earth as his
squire lowered the black helm over his head. “I could silence
the creature, if it please you,” he said through his open
visor. His boy placed a longsword in his hand. He tested the weight
of it, slicing at the cold morning air. Behind him, the yard rang
to the clangor of steel on steel.
The notion seemed to delight the prince. “Send a dog to
kill a dog!” he exclaimed. “Winterfell is so infested
with wolves, the Starks would never miss one.”
Tyrion hopped off the last step onto the yard. “I beg to
differ, nephew,” he said. “The Starks can count past
six. Unlike some princes I might name.”
Joffrey had the grace at least to blush.
“A voice from nowhere,” Sandor said. He peered
through his helm, looking this way and that. “Spirits of the
air!”
The prince laughed, as he always laughed when his bodyguard did
this mummer’s farce. Tyrion was used to it. “Down
here.”
The tall man peered down at the ground, and pretended to notice
him. “The little lord Tyrion,” he said. “My
pardons. I did not see you standing there.”
“I am in no mood for your insolence today.” Tyrion
turned to his nephew. “Joffrey, it is past time you called on
Lord Eddard and his lady, to offer them your comfort.”
Joffrey looked as petulant as only a boy prince can look.
“What good will my comfort do them?”
“None,” Tyrion said. “Yet it is expected of
you. Your absence has been noted.”
“The Stark boy is nothing to me,” Joffrey said.
“I cannot abide the wailing of women.”
Tyrion Lannister reached up and slapped his nephew hard across
the face. The boy’s cheek began to redden.
“One word,” Tyrion said, “and I will hit you
again.”
“I’m going to tell Mother!” Joffrey
exclaimed.
Tyrion hit him again. Now both cheeks flamed.
“You tell your mother,” Tyrion told him. “But
first you get yourself to Lord and Lady Stark, and you fall to your
knees in front of them, and you tell them how very sorry you are,
and that you are at their service if there is the slightest thing
you can do for them or theirs in this desperate hour, and that all
your prayers go with them. Do you understand? Do you?”
The boy looked as though he was going to cry. Instead, he
managed a weak nod. Then he turned and fled headlong from the yard,
holding his cheek. Tyrion watched him run.
A shadow fell across his face. He turned to find Clegane looming
overhead like a cliff. His soot-dark armor seemed to blot out the
sun. He had lowered the visor on his helm. It was fashioned in the
likeness of a snarling black hound, fearsome to behold, but Tyrion
had always thought it a great improvement over Clegane’s
hideously burned face.
“The prince will remember that, little lord,” the
Hound warned him. The helm turned his laugh into a hollow
rumble.
“I pray he does,” Tyrion Lannister replied.
“If he forgets, be a good dog and remind him.” He
glanced around the courtyard. “Do you know where I might find
my brother?”
“Breaking fast with the queen.”
“Ah,” Tyrion said. He gave Sandor Clegane a
perfunctory nod and walked away as briskly as his stunted legs
would carry him, whistling. He pitied the first knight to try the
Hound today. The man did have a temper.
A cold, cheerless meal had been laid out in the morning room of
the Guest House. Jaime sat at table with Cersei and the children,
talking in low, hushed voices.
“Is Robert still abed?” Tyrion asked as he seated
himself, uninvited, at the table.
His sister peered at him with the same expression of faint
distaste she had worn since the day he was born. “The king
has not slept at all,” she told him. “He is with Lord
Eddard. He has taken their sorrow deeply to heart.”
“He has a large heart, our Robert,” Jaime said with
a lazy smile. There was very little that Jaime took seriously.
Tyrion knew that about his brother, and forgave it. During all the
terrible long years of his childhood, only Jaime had ever shown him
the smallest measure of affection or respect, and for that Tyrion
was willing to forgive him most anything.
A servant approached. “Bread,” Tyrion told him,
“and two of those little fish, and a mug of that good dark
beer to wash them down. Oh, and some bacon. Burn it until it turns
black.” The man bowed and moved off. Tyrion turned back to
his siblings. Twins, male and female. They looked very much the
part this morning. Both had chosen a deep green that matched their
eyes. Their blond curls were all a fashionable tumble, and gold
ornaments shone at wrists and fingers and throats.
Tyrion wondered what it would be like to have a twin, and
decided that he would rather not know. Bad enough to face himself
in a looking glass every day. Another him was a thought too
dreadful to contemplate.
Prince Tommen spoke up. “Do you have news of Bran,
Uncle?”
“I stopped by the sickroom last night,” Tyrion
announced. “There was no change. The maester thought that a
hopeful sign.”
“I don’t want Brandon to die,” Tommen said
timorously. He was a sweet boy. Not like his brother, but then
Jaime and Tyrion were somewhat less than peas in a pod
themselves.
“Lord Eddard had a brother named Brandon as well,”
Jaime mused. “One of the hostages murdered by Targaryen. It
seems to be an unlucky name.”
“Oh, not so unlucky as all that, surely,” Tyrion
said. The servant brought his plate. He ripped off a chunk of black
bread.
Cersei was studying him warily. “What do you
mean?”
Tyrion gave her a crooked smile. “Why, only that Tommen
may get his wish. The maester thinks the boy may yet live.”
He took a sip of beer.
Myrcella gave a happy gasp, and Tommen smiled nervously, but it
was not the children Tyrion was watching. The glance that passed
between Jaime and Cersei lasted no more than a second, but he did
not miss it. Then his sister dropped her gaze to the table.
“That is no mercy. These northern gods are cruel to let the
child linger in such pain.”
“What were the maester’s words?” Jaime
asked.
The bacon crunched when he bit into it. Tyrion chewed
thoughtfully for a moment and said, “He thinks that if the
boy were going to die, he would have done so already. It has been
four days with no change.”
“Will Bran get better, Uncle?” little Myrcella
asked. She had all of her mother’s beauty, and none of her
nature.
“His back is broken, little one,” Tyrion told her.
“The fall shattered his legs as well. They keep him alive
with honey and water, or he would starve to death. Perhaps, if he
wakes, he will be able to eat real food, but he will never walk
again.”
“If he wakes,” Cersei repeated. “Is that
likely?”
“The gods alone know,” Tyrion told her. “The
maester only hopes.” He chewed some more bread. “I
would swear that wolf of his is keeping the boy alive. The creature
is outside his window day and night, howling. Every time they chase
it away, it returns. The maester said they closed the window once,
to shut out the noise, and Bran seemed to weaken. When they opened
it again, his heart beat stronger.”
The queen shuddered. “There is something unnatural about
those animals,” she said. “They are dangerous. I will
not have any of them coming south with us.”
Jaime said, “You’ll have a hard time stopping them,
sister. They follow those girls everywhere.”
Tyrion started on his fish. “Are you leaving soon,
then?”
“Not near soon enough,” Cersei said. Then she
frowned. “Are we leaving?” she echoed. “What
about you? Gods, don’t tell me you are staying
here?”
Tyrion shrugged. “Benjen Stark is returning to the
Night’s Watch with his brother’s bastard. I have a mind
to go with them and see this Wall we have all heard so much
of.”
Jaime smiled. “I hope you’re not thinking of taking
the black on us, sweet brother.”
Tyrion laughed. “What, me, celibate? The whores would go
begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. No, I just want to stand on
top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world.”
Cersei stood abruptly. “The children don’t need to
hear this filth. Tommen, Myrcella, come.” She strode briskly
from the morning room, her train and her pups trailing behind
her.
Jaime Lannister regarded his brother thoughtfully with those
cool green eyes. “Stark will never consent to leave
Winterfell with his son lingering in the shadow of
death.”
“He will if Robert commands it,” Tyrion said.
“And Robert will command it. There is nothing Lord Eddard can
do for the boy in any case.”
“He could end his torment,” Jaime said. “I
would, if it were my son. It would be a mercy.”
“I advise against putting that suggestion to Lord Eddard,
sweet brother,” Tyrion said. “He would not take it
kindly.”
“Even if the boy does live, he will be a cripple. Worse
than a cripple. A grotesque. Give me a good clean death.”
Tyrion replied with a shrug that accentuated the twist of his
shoulders. “Speaking for the grotesques,” he said,
“I beg to differ. Death is so terribly final, while life is
full of possibilities.”
Jaime smiled. “You are a perverse little imp, aren’t
you?”
“Oh, yes,” Tyrion admitted. “I hope the boy
does wake. I would be most interested to hear what he might have to
say.”
His brother’s smile curdled like sour milk. “Tyrion,
my sweet brother,” he said darkly, “there are times
when you give me cause to wonder whose side you are on.”
Tyrion’s mouth was full of bread and fish. He took a
swallow of strong black beer to wash it all down, and grinned up
wolfishly at Jaime, “Why, Jaime, my sweet brother,” he
said, “you wound me. You know how much I love my
family.”