Chapter 16: Faithless Creatures

"Men are such faithless creatures." —Varys

George R.R. Martin, A Clash of Kings - Tyrion XI

The air was heavy and thick. Tyrion took ragged breaths as he walked the length of the courtyard towards the Tower of the Hand. The walk was long, and his legs ached by the time that he reached the stairs that led up to the tower itself. With great effort he climbed the winding steps that led into the Hand's chamber, and he pushed open the heavy wooden door to find Lord Stark sitting there waiting for him. Lord Stark was serious and somber. The Quiet Wolf seemed to survey him from behind the heavy desk, and Tyrion wondered if, like most everyone else in his life, Lord Stark appraised him and found him wanting. It had been two days since Tyrion arrived in the capitol, and he didn't know what to expect. Ned Stark sat at a table that was piled high with parchments and scrolls.

"I see you're expecting me," Tyrion said, trying to portray some sense of levity. The sweat seeping through his clothing, but he hoped that the Hand didn't see it. Tyrion surveyed the room as he moved closer to the waiting chair, and took a closer look at the man that sat before him. 'This city is wearing on him,' he thought. Ned Stark motioned for Tyrion to sit, and he silently obeyed.

"You've been busy," Tyrion said, motioning towards the piles of scattered parchment. The Hand smiled half a smile, but his eyes were still red rimmed and tired. Tyrion's settled back against the chair, curiosity gnawing at him like rat. He returned Lord Eddard's smile before continuing the conversation. "To what do I owe this honor?"

"You do consider it an honor then?" The Hand said, as a smile spread in earnest across his face. He looked into Tyrion's eyes, studying him more intently. "I hope that the journey was easy." He said after a while.

"As easy as can be expected. We were only set upon by robbers twice," Tyrion said with a laugh. The journey had been surprisingly easy, considering.

There was a small round table that sat off to the the right side of the heavy wooden desk. Tyrion saw that it held a silver platter on which there sat two goblets, and a bottle of red wine. Lord Stark saw him looking, and gestured towards it. "Would you like some wine? I've had some brought up for you." He gestured again towards what appeared to be a fine Dornish red.

"You've anticipated me." Tyrion said, as his mind searchred for his next words. "My sweet sister nearly choked when when she saw me here at court."

"You will be seeing a lot more of her, should you decide to take up the position on offer."

'You honor me, Lord Stark" He said, trying to portray a lightness in his voice. "There are whispers that Littlefinger has left the capital, I assume you must be in need of a new Master of Coin."

Ned Stark took a deep breath before taking a large sip of wine. "Lord Baelish has left the capital. Tales of your cleverness have not been overstated."

"Clever? You must have me mistaken for another dwarf," he said with a laugh.

"How did you find the Wall?"

""My trip North to the Wall was eventful. Maester Aemon advises that it may be the longest winter yet. Lord Commander Mormont is—- more than a little concerned about the coming Winter. They are low on men. I half expected him to convince me to take the black."

"From the tales I've heard of you, a life of celibacy doesn't sound like something you'd be interested in."

"He wanted me to talk to the King. I told him that the King was likely to ignore me but—here we are."

"Here we are."

"There are less than a thousand men to man the wall. He says that the Watch has become an army of old men and children. They need more men."

"I'll do what I can. They can have their pick of the dungeons. We had a deserter—before the King arrived."

"A deserter?"

"He was mad. He claimed to have seen the white walkers—"

Tyrion felt a chill go through his body. It didn't seem to be the temperature of the room. Something about the vast nothingness had unsettled him as he looked out over the wall. Maybe there was something to the stories, he thought. "Mormont says there have been tales of strange things beyond the wall. He warned of a coming darkness. He claims that the fisherfolk at Eastwatch have glimpsed white walkers at the shores.

He expected the Hand to call him crazy, but he seemed listen more intently. "White walkers?" He repeated back.

Tyrion pressed on, "If you'd seen and heard what I saw and heard, the look in his eyes—the fear in his voice— he claimed to be plagued by strange dreams."

"We've all had strange dreams—since that bloody comet has been streaking across the sky—"

When Tyrion thought back to his own strange dreams. He could only shake his head in agreement.

"I'll send him as many men as I can to shore up the wall. Robert is too weak to disagree. Which brings me back to the reason that I've called you here—"

"Yes, the position on the council."

" I plan to travel North for the wedding of Robb and Myrcella." He held a letter in his hand, sealed with the direwolf sigil of House Stark, which he thrust towards Tyrion.

Not knowing what to expect, Tyrion felt his chest tighten as he took the letter, and held it curiously in his hand.

"You will also need these," Lord Stark said, "You may want to read that one first."

Tyrion opened the sealed letter and read:

I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King,do hereby command Lord Tyrion Lannister of House Lannister to serve as Hand of the King in my stead until such time as I return from The North."

He nearly dropped the scroll from his trembling hands ""Why me?"

"You've got a head for politics, I've heard."

"You place a great deal of trust in me, my Lord," he said. His chest tightened uncomfortably. He did his best to still himself.

"You have knowledge of many of the people on the council. You should do well here." Lord Stark replied.

"The other scrolls are only to be opened if one of two things happens. Should anything happen to me in my travels, or, should anything happen to our King in my absence. The Hand of the King should serve as Lord Protector of the realm in the event that the King succumbs to this mystery illness."

To Tyrion, this illness was no mystery. He suspected that his sister had something to do with it, but he had no proof. "What of my sister?" He asked.

"She, so far, is unaware of much my plans. I suggest it stay that way." Lord Eddard then took a large gulp of wine, as if to steady himself.

"I must ask again, although I don't doubt your judgment. Why me?" Tyrion implored.

"You are of House Lannister, you should be trusted by your family." He replied.

"My Lord, you are naive to the workings of my family if that is what you believe. My sister-loathes me." Tyrion said.

"So you refuse?" Lord Stark asked.

"No… I only wonder, why? Why me? You barely know me. My own father has not made me Lord protector of anything other than the sewers of Casterly Rock."

"Aye, so you should be eager to prove yourself, and to bring honor to your house." Eddard Stark smiled.

" Should you choose to go back to Casterly Rock and tend to the sewers, I shall have to make other arrangements. It would be a pity to have brought you all this way for nothing."

"I'll do it," Tyrion said. "But you may be disappointed. My nephew will likely be eager to assume the throne. Also…he hates me. "

"Temper him."

"Ha!" Tyrion took a sip of wine. "My head will end up on a spike."

"Who's to say it won't if you refuse me?"

"Why not my brother? He's already here in the capitol." At the mention of his brother the Hand's mouth tightened, but his expression betrayed little else.

"He serves as a member of the Kingsguard. He already has his responsibilities. "

"My Lord Father, is…aware of this."

"Need he be?"

"I suppose he will be pleased. Anything to secure the family legacy."

Lord Stark nodded. "Good. I've had this made up for you." He tossed a silver Hand of the King pin towards him. "You need not wear it until I leave the city. Keep it close. When you present the scroll, be sure that there are others there to witness it. Your sister—should not have it in her hands."

Tyrion nodded. "My duty is to the realm.."

"Aye, it is. I trust that you will remember thatl. I have another thing to ask of you."

"If it is within my power," Tyrion said.

"I need you to keep a close watch on my daughters, while I am away from the city."

Tyrion nodded. "Your wife has asked me to do the same. Is there something that I am not privy to?"

"Sansa, she's a sweet girl. Some mistake her sweetness for stupidity. Arya is willful. She needs a watchful eye."

"I've always had a soft spot for little things." He replied.

"If there is nothing else, I have some other matters to attend to." Lord Stark said, in a stern voice. Apparently the meeting was over.

Tyrion climbed down from the chair, and made his way back to his chambers. He clutched the two scrolls tightly in his hand. He had only imagined himself coming to fill the position of Master of Coin. His sister would not be pleased. His Father might be. He would do his best. That could be counted on.

Sansa sat alone in the courtyard on a bench overlooking the ocean. She watched as the ships came in and out. She remembered the game that she used to play. She longed for that innocence. Now she wished that she could board one of those ships. The last time that she boarded a ship it was under false pretense. Littlefinger had spirited her away to the Eyrie. As she sat and watched the people milling about in the courtyard, she knew in her heart that they were innocent too. They had no idea of the danger that awaited them and that was creeping towards them slowly and deliberately from the North. They had no idea that if they did nothing, and if they went about their lives as they were doing now being blissfully unaware, everyone that they have ever known would soon be dead.

"Lady Sansa," a familiar voice came from behind her.

"My Lord." She bowed. Lord Tyrion was standing behind her. He was dressed handsomely in a gold doublet.

"You look solemn. Am I interrupting?"

"No, I'm just watching the ships come in."

"Not thinking wistfully about your betrothed?" He teased.

"That doesn't sound very solemn my Lord."

"I've met your betrothed," he said with a smile.

"I'm playing a little game."

"What kind of game?"

"I like to make up a story about where the ships come from, and what kind of people might be on them."

Tyrion pointed to a handsome ship that approached the port."What about that one?"

"That ship is coming from Braavos. They are merchants coming to the city to sell their wares. The ship is filled with rich purple dyed fabrics to be sold at market."

"How does this game work exactly?"

"You just make up a story."

"Does it have to be about the ships?"

"Do you have another story?"

"Possibly."

Sansa eyed him skeptically. "Possibly?"

"You frequent the library. What is your favorite song?"

"I've always been partial to Florian and Jonquil."

"Ah, the great fool and great knight. You enjoy tales of Knights?"

"I did."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

"I know that story well."

"I have outgrown it."

He raised an eyebrow at this. "What kinds of stories do you prefer now?"

"Do you know the story of the Long Night?"

"Do you believe such things?"

"Old Nan used to tell us stories. Darkness fell across the world. Winter came and lasted generations. Men were born, lived and died never knowing summer. I also remember something about giant ice spiders."

"What about the snarks and grumkins?"

""Do you think the First Men built a wall that tall to keep out grumkins and snarks?" Sansa said.

"And now I see why you look solemn. The grumkins have gotten to you."

"You went to the top of the wall, did you see any grumkins?"

"No—but the men of the Watch were just as superstitious as you are and ten times as solemn."

"Winter is coming."

"The words of your house."

"More than that. A truth."

"Be that as it may. Winter has come and gone before."

"I've heard tell this may be the longest winter in living memory."

"I've heard the same.

"But you didn't think that "grumkins and snarks?"

"Are you mocking me Lady Stark?"

Sansa smiled. "No, only, I was thinking that a grumkin or snark might come in handy."

"How so?"

"Old Nan used to say that the grumkins could make wishes come true."

"Do you have a wish that you need to come true?" He said.

"A few."

"One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever," the words echoed in Sansa's head. She had been here before. Sansa entered the airy bedchamber that sat atop the Tower of the Hand. She was a married woman. A woman—grown. If not grown, flowered. To bed and to wed. Joffrey's words echoed in her head. The ghost of his fingers wrapped around her arm, thrusting her towards the altar were real enough to be felt still. The chambers had been decorated for the wedding. There were rose petals strewn across the floor leading her way towards the bed. The bed. The bed watched her expectantly—filling her with dread. The key to the North. Her brother was as good as dead. She was the key. Her maidenhead nothing but a tool in her own destruction. There were fragrant flowers all about the bedchamber. There was wine. All to sweeten the defeat of her family. Wine to dull the pain. Wine to dull the dread. Tyrion offered her a goblet, as he poured his own. He filled goblets for both of them. She held hers gently, stilling herself. He seemed to greedily consume his own. Sansa watched him keenly. He bid her to call him by his name. Tyrion. His name felt clumsy on her lips. He looked as if he was afraid of her. Ramsay had not looked afraid. He had looked at her as if she were a piece of meat. His eyes carved her up into tiny pieces and then his hands and his body did the rest. She felt control here. She felt control but yet she went through the motions. She watched as her Lord husband drunkenly stumbled about their bedchamber. She began to undress. She didn't need another sip of wine. She wanted this. This will change everything. 'I cannot be sold off like a brood mare again,' she thought. She began to unlace her dress.

As she undressed, he turned away, shyly. He is afraid. She thought. But he wants me. I know he wants me. Do I want him to want me? Sansa pondered. She wasn't sure. But there was a strange stirring in her flesh and she wanted to quiet it. It was as if there was something else inside her clawing to get out. A wolf. The wolf doesn't concern herself with the lamb, she smiled to herself silently. The wolf in her propelled her forward. She walked over to where Tyrion stood, clutching a golden goblet. He looked at her as if entranced. His eyes watched her hungrily as she crossed the room. Now who is the lamb, she mused. She reached out and caressed his face, gently. He looked at her-curious and quiet as if she were a doe, who might run away if he moved. She ran her thumb along the length of his jaw, and traced his lower lip with her thumb before coming to rest it on his chin. He stood there still, rooted to the spot. What am I to do? She thought, and then she knelt down. As she leaned in to kiss him the thought struck her that his mouth probably tasted like wine. His lips were lightly reddened from the wine. She could almost taste it—taste them—on her own. As her face moved closer to his, the light of the candles seemed brighter behind him. He was slipping further from her. The room was slipping further away. The light seemed brighter and brighter behind him. The light enveloped her body. The light was warm. It hurt her eyes. She rubbed them trying to ease the discomfort, but the light got brighter and brighter. It was as if the sun was right above her and inside the room.

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the sun streamed in through her window. She turned over in bed. Dreamwine. I must talk to the Maester.