A/N: Alright, so here is the first chapter of my next story. This is the sequel to Because You Are My Son, so if you have not read that first, you probably should, or this might not make a whole lot of sense. I hope everyone enjoys this; it's going to get harder and harder to update because my insanely busy schedule but I will make my best attempt to update every few days. Anyways, enjoy the story!

Winter had finally arrived, just as the Starks had never ceased predicting. The winds were howling like a pack of ghouls thirsting for vengeance and the snow was whisking around in tiny flakes, seemingly harmless but in truth blinding every person who happened to be traveling the moment the cold took hold. Tyrion Lannister happened to be one of those people. Being a dwarf had never had many advantages; in a snowstorm, the disadvantages of being so short were made plainly clear.

Tyrion, wrapped in perhaps the most conspicuous black coat in all of existence, trudged slowly and stiffly through the numbing snow and wind. The trials of being a dwarf, he thought miserably. Even if this coat is black, I am short enough that no one will see me anyways! His stunted legs struggled to move through the rapidly rising piles of snow; at this rate, he would soon be buried!

The day had started out nice enough. Tyrion had recently snuck out of a wagon that had been carrying him up north. This had not been the same wagon that had carried him out of King's Landing. No, Tyrion had been hopping in and off of wagons for the past eight months. It was all very trying, but it was vastly preferable to walking. He had walked for perhaps about a mile, the sun shining cheerfully, the air still cold but tolerable, when a shrieking noise had filled his ears.

At first, Tyrion had thought it was someone crying. And then he saw what appeared to be a wall of snow approaching in the distance. "Oh, fuck me." Tyrion had nearly growled, tightening the straps of his coat as the cold air sharpened in its bitterness and the storm screamed its way to Tyrion. Within minutes, he was surrounding by angry wind and cruel flakes of snow. Winter had indeed come, along with a fury Tyrion was fully unaccustomed to.

Tyrion's slow progress through the snow was altogether infuriating. His cheeks stung from the bitter air, his lips were cracked and bleeding, and his trousers were soaked all the way through with the relentless cold that all the damnable snow forced upon him. If he was a normal man, he would at least be moving at a faster pace and would probably be able to navigate around the snow banks more easily than he could now.

To whatever gods that give a shit about prayers, Tyrion thought, stuffing his frozen fingers into the deep pockets of his coat, please show me a sign of whether I am to live through this weather or drop dead at this instance. It was almost funny, really, when Tyrion walked a few more steps and spotted a house to his left.

Ready to collapse with relief, Tyrion stumbled as quickly as he could through the snow in the direction of the house. It was well built and seemed to be handling the storm well. It was wooden and old, but it was a roof to put one's head under. Tyrion's hand went instinctively to the small sack of money tied at his waist. Most of it was not his, for he had to resort to pickpocketing and stealing in order to keep himself alive. A thief and a dwarf. Tyrion snorted. Father would be so proud.

Tyrion had a good handful of coins left at his disposal, so taking shelter at the house - no, it was an inn - would not be an issue. Walking up to the tattered inn, Tyrion cleared his throat and pushed open the door, silently praising the gods as warmth and the scent of food enveloped him.

Inside it was crowded, filled with men shaking off the snow from the coats, wiping the mud off of their boots, exchanging raucous laughs with each other. Tyrion grimaced as it all stopped and everyone turned to look at him. Eyes were trained on him as he let the door slam shut. Silence hung uncomfortably in the inn. Tyrion could only guess what they were contemplating. Oh, look, there's the dwarf son of Tywin Lannister who has a bounty on his head.

Tyrion coughed quietly, looking at all the faces around him. Some were incredulous, as if they had never seen such a short man before. Other faces were impassive, barely sending him a second glance. There were two or three, however, that looked mildly alarmed or downright angry. Tyrion swallowed, forcing a smile on his face. "Yes, even short men like me need to find shelter during a storm." he said, beginning to remove his coat.

A large woman moved to greet him. Tall and plump, with two ruby red cheeks and a gracious smile. "You are most welcome here, milord." she said to him, taking his coat from him. "You'll find this place crowded, but you're so short, I'm sure we'll find room for you."

Ordinarily, Tyrion would have laughed at that. Instead, he gave the woman a tight but courteous smile and handed her a few coins. "I can find my way around this place. Thank you." The woman waddled off, the coins jingling in her hands.

Tyrion was surprised and worried that the woman knew who he was. Then again, there were only so many dwarves in the Seven Kingdoms and certainly by now word had gotten out to most towns and villages that Tyrion Lannister, the Demon Monkey, had killed Joffery Baratheon, the Boy King. And perhaps even more sadistic than the Mad King had ever been. Tyrion made his way through the crowd, edging between peoples' legs as he fought his way over to the bar.

Oh, what he would give for a good drink right now.

Before he had gotten far, however, a soft voice called to him.

"My lord?"

He froze, his body turning to ice. He knew that voice. But surely it couldn't be...

Tyrion turned around, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of a very startled looking Sansa Stark.