Tyrion walked across the yard and watched the boys practicing their sword fighting. The blunted swords, heavy enough to bruise, would not do permanent harm. And the boys were well padded. Unless one of them went for the other's head, he thought. Or mine. He turned away and sought out the warmth and peace of the library. It had been rebuilt after the fire and occupied a lower level in the Keep. Never a popular place, it was like a morgue when the castle was full of fighters. This only improved it in Tyrion's eyes. Let them fight – any fool could fight. Apart from me, he grimaced. His lantern led him in and he lost himself in the histories of the Iron Islands.
He was woken by the harsh clang of metal on stone – how had the sounds from the yard become so loud down here? He looked up into Jaime's face and realised it wasn't just the sounds that had penetrated his safe-haven. Tyrion scowled, emphasising his uneven features and the sleep-creases across his face.
"Come now Little Brother, no need to look like murder – a man shouldn't be asleep when there is fighting to be had." Jaime had always been happy to interrupt Tyrion's study, or sleep, with talk of fighting and tourney. Tyrion wondered yet again how he could deflect Jaime's enthusiasm for the sword-play into something more productive, then sighed as he realised he probably never could. Jaime simply didn't see anything that wasn't a woman or a fight.
"Has our sister no work for you today Brother?" The heavy emphasis on the word had no effect. Mention of Cersei's demands on her twin brother even now failed to raise a blush on his cheeks. Although Jaime was now aware that Tyrion had always known of his siblings' illicit relationship, he could never acknowledge it – even after his admission of his part in destroying the only girl Tyrion had ever loved. An act of honesty that had nearly ended any sibling feeling that remained between them. "Ah well, I'm cold - let's go and find something to warm me up". Tyrion hopped down from the hard bench, cursing the stiffness in his legs that had him staggering gracelessly to the door. They walked together across the now silent yard – the boys had been taken inside to hot spiced wine and cold meat and bread. A fighter's feast in these days of rations. Tyrion was happy to settle down on a bench with a full plate and a mug of wine whose scent made him think of the warmth of Dorn – especially Serena, the warmest of all. He barely spoke to Jaime who, although beside him, was engrossed in final details with Theon Greyjoy. Tyrion, felt his mood sink as the evening wore on and he glowered around at the young men, so full of life. It was as if he was the only person who could see death approaching like a wolf at the edges of the light. Finally he got up drank a silent toast to the hall and stalked out on stiff legs to a cold bed and a night short of sleep.
Winter had come.
The saying, so easily spoken by all the Starks, had become reality. Those who had only known the snows of summer were astonished when snow fell on snow for days on end, and weeks passed when the cold only got harder never less. Stores had long been put by for the hard times to come, but few animals could be kept in the enclosures of Winterfell that remained unfrozen. The seat of the northern Kings was blessed with its own warmth, like a beating heart pumping warm blood - coming miraculously in the form of hot water bubbling up from below the rocks. Still, many animals had to be killed. The last weeks while the freeze turned the outer walls white had been spent in slaughtering livestock – their cries screeching through the castle and making the children weep. But this was the sound of survival – the meat, blood and skins they provided would keep the occupants alive through the long, bitter winter – they hoped. The meat was dried. Cut into strips and strung out on racks, where they were held in place with small spikes of wood. They could be seen blowing like bloody pennants in the deadly cold winds that swept down from the surrounding mountains. The winds that felt like they had come blowing straight from beyond the Wall. After a couple of days the meat strips were brought down and packed into sacks. Stiff as wood, they would keep indefinitely so long as they remained cold and dry. The blood was kept liquid by stirring constantly for half a day while it cooled. Then mixed with dry-baked bread crumb and made into the hearty blood-sausages that would feed a soldier or a child. Boiled or roasted, even the most timid of diners would devour them once the cold bit.
The Maesters, a handful of them having collected at Winterfell before the Winter came, had laid claim to the finer skins and had set some of the children to scraping and stretching them ready for making into parchment. Records were already being kept of stores, storage methods and the changes in the weather. Many could not understand why they were bothering – the next winter would be many years after they had all died anyway. Tyrion knew why – he had helped the young Septon, Sam Tarley, to find all the texts they could from the previous winters. Survival required planning and planning required information. Even the ballads could give some clue that may be the difference between surviving and dying. Tyrion counted that one of the happiest times of his life. Learning, planning and putting those plans into place. All the swordplay in the world would come to nothing if they starved to death or froze in their beds. And the end of Winter may be the worst time – as food stores ran out and the Spring crops not yet ready to harvest. Foraging might be the difference between a living or dead Winterfell when people travelled North again. They would need to learn.
Jaime was restless; a man could only do so much practice before he needed to kill someone. And the younger soldiers needed to get out and do something useful before the regular fights in the mess ended in murder. He had worked with Theon Greyjoy to build up a fighting force, but they were untried and largely oblivious to the real dangers of the Wild and the Cold. Since the Winter came, it was as if the Wall could not hold the Cold back. It had swept over the wall and down the still-green valleys in a matter of days, like a dam overflowing after too much rain. The freezing air had killed all those who chose to stay and brave it out and the land would be fit for nothing but White Walkers, wolves and elk until the thaw came. Tyrion would not be going with them and Jaime realised he would miss his brother. The wit that so often infuriated him was familiar and almost comforting in the changed world he inhabited. His sister, no longer Queen, was an embittered woman who found comfort only in the almost animal rutting she and Jaime engaged in whenever they found a private space. But this had become almost an impossibility since the castle had filled with the young men hoping to become famed soldiers and saviours of the Seven Kingdoms. Jaime would be leading them along with Theon Greyjoy. The thought left him relieved, instead of bereft. He was done with her but could not find a way to break away without leaving the castle entirely. And Jaime was more than ready to leave.
When Theon and Jaime set the day for leaving, the level of activity in the castle ratcheted up a notch. The cooks and kitchen staff prepared a feast for the young men. No-one spoke the words, but they knew it was unlikely many would return, and fewer would return whole. The young women, from the lady's maids to the lowest scullery girls made sure that every man left with a memory of a loving body and a hungry mouth to keep them warm in the wilderness. Even the ugly ones, men and women both, had smiles on their faces over the days before the parting. How many babies would come from that parting gift no-one knew, but it would be more than a few.
Tyrion did not indulge, and he could not fathom why. He had been the hungriest of lovers since the gathering at Winterfell. The whorehouse outside the gates had been blessed with his coin on an almost daily basis for months. Although, truth be known, sometimes it was just to get away from the clanging of metal and to sleep late into the morning. A couple of days before the feast, watching the carts being packed, he understood why at last. He was not going. He would not be fighting the White Walkers, risking his life to save the North, and the Seven Kingdoms from the winter menace. He would be safe at Winterfell, counting beans and writing history from the outside of the fight. He cursed and kicked hard at the post he was leaning against. A mistake. The cold had frozen it to the hardness of steel and he cursed even louder and hopped about clutching his foot. The stupidity of the kick at first infuriated him, then suddenly he was overwhelmed with laughter. He was jealous of Jaime – he felt like a 10 year-old again. But this time he could see his young self through the mirror of years. He may not be a fighter, but he was damned good at what he did. And he was going to keep these people alive. Those children that would come may never know a father, but they would live and grow. Not just because brave men went out into the Winter carrying their Dragonglass weapons and fought unnatural beings, but because brave people stayed behind and kept Winterfell alive. Me, brave. He thought, laughing even harder. Until the people loading the carts turned and looked at him wondering what was going on. Tyrion stood up straight and went to find a pretty little scullery maid he had noticed a few days ago. Not all the babies would be fatherless.