Tyrion
"I suppose my fate as a turnip has now been sealed," Tyrion said glibly as he hoisted himself into the wagon.
"Better a turnip than a dead man," said Bronn cooly. He handed Tyrion a small barrel.
"The rest of my sad turnip family?" Tyrion asked as he nestled it among the rest of the stores.
"Dragon glass."
"Ah," Tyrion turned back toward Bronn, his brother, and the young Lord Dayne. Standing in the cart, he was finally at eye level with them. A welcome change. "I suppose it is more useful for fighting the dead than a turnip."
"Enough," Jaime uttered, exasperated. "You're going. By order of your Dragon Queen ." Tyrion did not like the way he emphasized the last words.
"She's your Dragon Queen, too," Tyrion smirked. "I am well aware that my reach isn't as long as yours, and I'm well aware that my parrying skills are a bit rusty, but father never would have stood for this. He would have ordered me to fight."
"He would have ordered you to the vanguard and prayed to the Seven you'd come back a corpse," Jaime corrected. Tyrion could say nothing to that. And despite Tyrion's battle experience, he had never fought swarms of unyielding dead. It was a battle he could not strategize his way out of. And so when Daenerys ordered him to Moat Cailin with Varys and Missandei and the rest of the North who could not hold a sword, he had resigned himself to his fate, in spite of any outward protest. "We will see each other again," Jaime moved closer to the wagon's edge. "You have my word." The two Lannister brothers embraced tightly. Tyrion felt his chest constrict. It was like to strangle him.
"You are not allowed to die," Tyrion said. He labored over every word. "I've already spared you from becoming a feast for dragon's more than once." Jaime smiled, his eyes pooling. "If after all my hard work you let some corpse kill you, you'll make a mummer's farce out of me."
"I'll try my best," Jaime said, holding up his golden hand. It was then that Lady Sansa appeared from the ordered chaos of the yard. Her shining auburn hair covered in a Stark white woolen hood. Her cheeks and nose nipped from the cold. She looked lovely.
"My lords," she cooed. She outstretched a single hand as Lord Dayne helped her up into the wagon. The poor boy turned red as an apple. Tyrion grinned.
"Ah, Lady Stark," Tyrion said. "Will you be joining this lonely Turnip on our journey south? I thought you'd be in the wheelhouse with the others."
"I can't see the north from inside a crowded-," but Sansa stopped mid-stride. Her eyes wide and focused upon some commotion beyond Tyrion towards the portcullis. Tyrion turned on his heels. A small party of black and gray-clad soldiers had appeared in the yard. From what house they belonged to, Tyrion could not say as they bore no sigils, but Sansa seemed to recognize the man in front. His skin was mottled and colorless, his cloak patched with roughspun that hung from a single silver button, and his auburn hair fell about his emaciated face limply. Sansa slowly took a step backward off the wagon, leaving Tyrion and the others behind.
Lady Sansa removed her hood revealing a woman bewildered. The scrawny man stood very still then and the rest of his party followed his lead. A moment passed as the whole yard seemed to slow around the two. And then motion. In a single swift bound, Sansa leapt into the arms of the man, burying his face in an avalanche of furs. He staggered backward, but braced himself, holding her tight.
It was only when they parted that Tyrion noticed the small brooch clasped to his cloak. A Kraken. Theon Greyjoy. He was thinner than last he saw him on Dragonstone. His hair was longer and unshorn. Dark circles plagued his eye, but yes, it was the same Theon Greyjoy who came to him those many months ago asking for the Queen's assistance. What he had experienced between then and now, Tyrion could not say. But a moment later, a woman astride a red mare appeared beneath the gates. Her boiled leather armor well-oiled and her hair shorn like a man's. On her back, she carried an ax. Yara Greyjoy.
"Move aside," Tyrion commanded Jaime and the others. He hoisted himself down awkwardly, his legs aching already from the cold. Jon and Daenerys had emerged from the keep, the queen clad in her white furs, her king in boiled armor and Stark gorget. She looks pleased, Tyrion remarked. It was true enough. Jon, or whatever he calls himself these days, he thought, looked up with measured skepticism. Though in fairness, his face gave little and less away under normal circumstances. Tyrion's stunted legs finally carried him across the yard, the party's conversation coming into earshot.
"-until sundown," Jon said, his voice heavy with burden. Yara dismounted and stood shoulder to shoulder with her brother.
"We mean to honor our pledge to Queen Daenerys," she said, nodding towards the Queen. "If she stands with Winterfell, our place is here." The king and queen exchanged looks, both seemingly in accordance.
Jon unsheathed a dirk at his belt. The onyx blade glowed dully underneath the gray winter morning.
"Dragonglass," Yara quipped as took the blade from Jon, examining its balance and feel. "What else kills the fuckers?" She asked, and handed the blade back to Jon.
"Fire," Daenerys said, smiling.
"And Valyrian steel," Jon said, pulling his longsword from its sheath.
"Our men have neither," Yara said. Her eyes darting towards the ragged Iron Born.
"Lord Baratheon is at the forge. See that your men visit him. We cannot fight the dead with steel alone."
"Lord Baratheon?" Theon's voice was edged with incredulity.
"Gendry Storm has been legitimized," Tyrion spoke up. "He has inherited all the land's and titles of his late father Robert Baratheon, as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands." He paused. "That is if he lives long enough to inherit them." Daenerys shot him a scowl, but Yara let loose a fit of laughter.
"It is good to see you again, Lord Tyrion. I wish it were under happier circumstances."
"As do I, Lady Yara." Tyrion offered a graceful bow. When he rose, he noticed Theon's gaze was still fixed upon Sansa. He suddenly felt as though we were intruding.
"Lady Sansa," Tyrion offered genially. "I believe our wheelhouse awaits." Sansa looked to Theon expectantly. As if wanting to say something she could not bring herself to say. A moment passed in silence.
"Sansa," Theon spoke finally. "Give me leave to be your shield," he knelt to a single knee, his head lowered as if in prayer. "I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new." An oath. Sansa looked upon him breathless, her eyes laced with a sweet sadness.
"Rise, Theon." She said not unkindly, though Greyjoy did not move. "I leave for Moat Cailin. Though, I leave Winterfell not of my own volition." She glanced at Jon, her eyes wielding daggers.
"Winterfell needs a Stark. If Winterfell falls our house falls with it." It was clear Sansa understood this however little she liked it. She acquiesced.
"If your liege gives you leave, I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth." She smiled softly and looked to Jon expectantly.
"Aye," he said curtly after a pregnant pause.
"Arise," Sansa said, offering Theon her hand. He stood, brushing the snow from his breeches, his face suddenly transformed. No longer did he seem gaunt. In its stead was a man with a purpose.
The wagon ride south was bitterly cold and bumpy. Tyrion knew those who left in the final wave were not like to ever see Moat Cailin, but it was not a thought he was quite ready to accept all the same. They would be lucky to make it to Castle Cerwyn by nightfall, though he supposed any distance between him and the Army of the Dead was better than none. His thoughts drifted to Daenerys as he watched Sansa's sleeping head bobble on Theon's shoulder, her auburn eyelashes fluttering in repose.
"If I don't make it," she had said. Her face disinclined to reveal any emotion.
"You will," he took his hand in hers. Though he knew it was likely to be a falsehood, he told the lie to himself all the same. "You have Drogon. And Jon to fly beside you."
"Viserion," she whispered. Tyrion heaved a great sigh.
"We will think of succession when the time comes. Right now I see a living, breathing queen. A warrior queen," he smiled. "One with the mettle of Visenya and the loveliness of Rhaenys." Daenerys laughed, wiping the tear from her cheek. As if by fate, Jon had come into view, a saddle was thrown over his shoulder as he stalked across the muddied yard. Forever in preparation.
"And there's your Aegon now." He grinned warm and genuine when he heard Dany laugh. It was good to hear her laugh.
As the wagon jostled ever southward, Tyrion found himself reminiscing more. Of his childhood, his siblings, his father. Even a mother whose face he only conjured in dreams. Of Tysha and Shae. Of Blackwater and Slaver's Bay. Sweet Penny. And of course, his Dragon Queen.
But fate was not inclined to let him linger in the past for long. A pothole jolted him out of the past and into the snow-blanketed hills of the North. Opposite Tyrion, Sansa and Theon still dozed. Lulled to sleep by the perpetual rocking of the wagon. It was then that Tyrion noticed it. A strip of parchment had wriggled its way out from underneath one of their furs and onto the floor of the wagon. Small and seemingly devoid of any content, Tyrion bent down to pick it up. He unrolled it.
If Tywin Lannister had not sent him to King's Landing to act in his stead, Tyrion might never have recognized the writing. Fortunately, he had received hundreds of ledgers, summons, receipts, and bills of lading from the hand. He read the four words over and over until they scarcely made any sense at all.
Chaos is a ladder, it read.
Tyrion knew just whose hand had written them. Petyr Baelish.