Tyrion

They had made him leave early. Well, technically they hadn't made him do anything. His sister the queen had simply promised Benjen Stark and his black brothers some good wine and salted pork to take up to Castle Black if they set out the day after the feast. Of course it couldn't have occurred to her that his mission required he go with them, she had done it out of nothing more than the kindness of her heart. She had doubtless been unaware that it would have been nearly suicide for a dwarf, and a Lannister dwarf at that, to travel virtually alone with a small guard in the middle of the North. The land itself almost seemed hostile. Two-hundred and eight leagues of bleak, desolate, inhospitable terrain had stood between him and the Wall when he had first left Winterfell, and every mile of it seemed more dismal and dreary than the one before. And this is what it looks like in summer.

He rode up alongside Benjen, offering the First Ranger a friendly smile. It went unreciprocated. For what might have been the tenth time, he tried to strike up conversation.

"You know, Lord Benjen, I've been thinking," he said in the friendliest tone he could muster after so many rejections.

"Always dangerous, thinking," the Stark replied gruffly. Good sense might have told Tyrion to leave it at that, but the road was long and he needed to pass the time.

"Dangerous, I'll admit, but when the gods bless you with a large head and tiny limbs you find you don't have the talent for much else. What say we play a little joke on the next people we meet on the road?"

"We won't meet any people." Tyrion knew the First Ranger spoke truthfully on this point. Three castles guarding a three hundred mile stretch of land meant small raiding parties must get through quite often. From what Tyrion understood the majority of the smallfolk who had once lived in the lands granted to the Watch were either dead or had fled to the demesne of House Umber nearby.

"But suppose we do. Word travels slowly this far north. How do you think they would react if I told them I was your prisoner, sent to join the Night's Watch for the horrible crimes of House Lannister?"

"And you'd tell them you're a Lannister?" Benjen raised an eyebrow at this.

"Oh yes," Tyrion said, a mischievous grin upon his face. "That way I could have them guess at what sordid deeds had me banished to the Wall."

"They wouldn't guess," Benjen told him.

"And why not?"

"We're too far north. They wouldn't know what a Lannister is."

"Well suppose they do. Suppose we're dealing with a wandering maester or a surprisingly literate band of peasants."

"They still wouldn't guess."

"And your reason this time?"

"You're a Lannister. They already know you're guilty of something."

"Come now, Lord Benjen," Tyrion continued. "I may have my vices, but partaking of the joys of wine and women is hardly a crime."

"You wouldn't be able to do that as a man of the Watch, you know," Benjen said, finally indulging Tyrion. "You'd be breaking your vows."

"Tell that to the fair maidens of Mole's Town. From what I understand those vows are more honored in the breach than the observance."

"Honored in the breach?"

"Just something I read somewhere. A tale of a Northern prince, I believe. He was a miserable lad, I imagine he'd fit right in at the Wall."

"You know I think I've heard that one," Benjen said. "But the way I remember it he was driven mad by incest and intrigue. Sounds more like your kind of fellow." A long pause followed.

"Where do you think I would fit in as a black brother, Lord Benjen?" Tyrion asked.

"You'd be a sorry sight as a ranger, that much is certain."

"Oh, come now, I'd like to think with an axe in my hand and a bit of training I could be the terror of every kneecap beyond the Wall!" Benjen chuckled at this. Tyrion was glad to have broken through the First Ranger's icy exterior, but he disliked the reminder that the easiest way he could make someone warm up to him was with a jape at his own expense.

"I doubt you'd have the frame to be a builder, either," mused Benjen. "Maybe the stewards. Tell me, Lord Tyrion, has a lord of your stature ever stooped down to clean anything?" The half-concealed smirk on the Stark's face made it obvious he thought he was being clever.

"I'll have you know that when I was a lad, my lord father put me in charge of all the cisterns and drains at Casterly Rock! In no time at all I had them cleaner and working better than they had in centuries!"

"If you told that to the Lord Commander, you'd do nothing else for the rest of your life." Benjen was almost smiling now, and Tyrion had almost convinced himself he had made a friend.

"Surely the need for Washers on the Wall is not so desperate? How many men hold Castle Black?"

"Six-hundred," talk of business seemed to have reminded the First Ranger who he was speaking to. "Two-hundred at the Shadow Tower and less than that at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. At least that's what it was last I checked. You'd have to ask the Lord Commander or Maester Aemon for the exact figures." Tyrion suspected that was the end of their conversation for the day, but for once he didn't care. As he and Benjen reached the top of the hill they had been ascending they could see it. As desolate and empty as the North may have been, the Wall made up for it. Standing in defiance of any known principles of engineering, the massive sheet of ice rose so high into the air Tyrion could swear he saw clouds about its top, and stretched so far in either direction that it seemed a boundary even to the horizon. Turning his attention to the top once more he could see the thin frames of catapults and small black dots that must have been the black brothers. 'One hundred leagues long' and 'seven hundred feet high' were meaningless phrases until one stood before their very instantiation. Nothing Tyrion had read in any book by Lomas Longstrider could do it justice.

Castle Black, however, left much to be desired. It was thrice as small as the Wall if one measured from the top of its highest tower, and its dank, shabby workings were laid bare by the fact that it was built to be utterly indefensible from an attack from the south. If enough small parties could meet up after crossing the Wall, Tyrion thought morbidly. Supposedly that kind of sophistication was beyond the Wildlings. Some of the innovations introduced by Benjen, like randomizing the size and strength of ranging parties, had proven effective enough in keeping raiders in check. Tyrion tried to put the thought of a Wildling invasion out of his mind. The Watch had kept them in check for years, and even if the rumors of a new King-beyond-the-Wall were true, it was doubtful he would be able to unite enough of them for any serious attack on the Seven Kingdoms.

"When will I be meeting with the Lord Commander?" Tyrion asked.

"At the feast in your honor," Benjen stated. "But that won't be until tomorrow night. The Lord Commander expected that you'll want to get straight to work. I'm to escort you to the library to speak to Maester Aemon." With a sigh Tyrion goaded his pony on after the First Ranger as they both entered Castle Black through its main gate. He was disappointed that he would have to wait until the following evening to have a good meal and a good drink, but at least that evening he would have the chance to speak with a living legend.

The Maester Aemon Targaryen that King Rhaegar spoke of was wise, diligent, humble, and hardworking, everything a true maester should be. Given the somewhat combative stance the King had occasionally taken with the order, Tyrion was unsure of what to make of that assessment. Supposedly the two had been in correspondence for some time, and Rhaegar's fondness for his great-great-uncle had made him something of a household name in King's Landing, though not in the same way as Marwyn the Mage or the Red Witch of Dragonstone. Dismounting and following Benjen up the stairs out of the courtyard and into Castle Black's library, Tyrion was about to find out what truth surrounded the stories surrounding him.

Sitting at the end of a long table, surrounded by books and parchment, was a man of immense age. He was scribbling something on parchment, though he did not seem to be looking at what he was writing. Nonetheless, his expression was that of complete focus. Old withered robes hung about his frail body and a maester's chain was draped about his neck. Tyrion immediately recognized the links in the chain that symbolized mastery of skills useful to the Watch: black iron for ravenry, bronze for astronomy, silver for healing, pale steel for smithing, along with a few others besides. At the sound of Tyrion's arrival his head turned quickly towards the door, though his eyes seemed to search vainly, almost randomly, for the new arrivals.

"Who's there?" he asked. "Benjen, have you come with the Lannister?" A blind old man? This is the famed Maester Aemon? Tyrion supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. The King had said something about his relative being able to see things more clearly at the Wall, and it was just like Rhaegar to lace his words with irony.

"No need to answer, my boy, I know it's you," the old man continued, a warm smile coming over his wrinkled face. "You smell too much like the road and I haven't heard a gait like that since a woman from Mole's Town brought her son with her and said he was Buckwell's." Benjen laughed at that.

"I don't think that comparison is entirely fair, Maester Aemon," Tyrion told him. "I doubt the Buckwell boy can hold his wine as well as I can." This elicited a chuckle from the old man.

"And he no doubt lacks your head for sums and figures. My nephew promised me a giant in that regard. Did he bother to tell you why?"

"He did not," Tyrion admitted. "Simply that I was to prepare a thorough appraisal of the state of the Watch."

"So like Rhaegar," the maester muttered. "He may ask me a thousand questions, but he seems determined to keep his own counsel." Tyrion had to admit that did sound like the Rhaegar he knew. "You can leave us, Benjen, giant though he may be, I think Tarly and I are safe from our guest. Speaking of which, Samwell! Did you find that book I asked you for?"

"It's here, Maester Aemon!" A fat, pudgy boy dressed in the black of the Night's Watch came stumbling out of the bookshelves with an ancient tome in his hands. Tyrion had heard Randyll Tarly had a son in the Watch, and supposed this must be him. The young Tarly was about to drop the book in front of the old maester, but Aemon stopped him with a wave of his hand before it could fall on the still wet ink. Extending his arms, he received the book from the boy and set it in his lap, running his fingers over the engraved cover, a slow smile coming to his face.

"Yes, I think this may be the one," he said. He motioned for Tyrion to come over to where he was sitting, and handed the book to him. Tyrion looked at the pages on which Maester Aemon had been writing and realized quickly that blindness had not made the man illiterate. On the parchment were a number of sums and figures in excellent handwriting. Turning his attention to the book once more Tyrion looked at the title: A Survey and Summary of the Lands of the New Gift. He had spent enough time in libraries to know that the tome was at least as old as the man who had handed it to him. He opened it carefully and began to slowly page through it, seeing to his astonishment what appeared to be a thorough record of the lands granted to the Night's Watch by Queen Alysanne some two hundred years ago, from before they had been given to the Night's Watch. What lords and keeps had been there, a census of the smallfolk, what incomes had been derived from the lands, all of it was there. Tyrion was unsure what surprised him more, that the old man thought he would need this volume or that it even existed.

"A bit out of date, but I have no doubt it will be useful in our task," Aemon assured him.

"I'm sorry, maester, but I must confess my ignorance as to its usefulness. What will this tell us about the Watch as it is now?"

"Only how far it has fallen, I'm afraid, but that's a part of our endeavor as well. King Rhaegar wouldn't have bothered to send one of his most valued counselors up here for a simple report, Lord Tyrion. Sam and I could have handled that on our own. No, you're to determine what it would take to get the Watch back to full strength, and then put forth a proposal for putting as many men on the Wall as possible before winter." Tyrion wished he had a goblet of wine in his hand so he had something to spit out.

"You can't be serious? What need is there for something like that?"

"I asked my nephew that same question in our correspondence. He thinks a great battle is coming and that the Realm must be prepared, that the Prince that was Promised must not falter." Tyrion scoffed at the mention of prophecy.

"I must admit I was a bit skeptical myself, Lord Tyrion, but the situation here at the Wall is far more dire than the Realm realizes. More and more patrols are disappearing, and those that do return come back with horrifying stories. For one, they say Mance Rayder has crowned himself King-beyond-the-Wall, and is gathering every fighting Wildling he can for an assault on the Seven Kingdoms. Laugh all you want at my nephew's obsession with prophecy, but we may soon face the most dire threat to the Realm since Raymun Redbeard, and that's if we're lucky."

"And if we aren't?" Tyrion asked against his better judgment. It seemed the King was chasing something more substantial than snarks and grumkins, but he couldn't see how there would be anything else to fear besides a Wildling invasion, however disastrous that may be. Maester Aemon let out a long sigh, and motioned for Samwell to help him to his feet.

"I'll need to show you something in the ice cells to answer that question," the maester replied gravely as he began to hobble towards the door of the library. "Sam, make sure Lord Tyrion has a torch when we get to the cells. He's going to want it." Tyrion took a torch from the pudgy boy, who offered to help lead Maester Aemon to Castle Black's dungeon, the prison cells made of ice that were carved into the Wall itself. Tyrion had spent enough time with the King to be accustomed to cryptic phrases and secrecy, but he found it a refreshing change of pace that the old maester was actually willing to show him what he was talking about.

It had grown dark. The courtyard of the castle was nearly empty. Each step that they took along the wooden balcony caused the boards to creak eerily. Tyrion wanted to make small talk, but found his words caught in his throat. He could not see Maester Aemon's face, but every now and then Samwell would look back at him with a frightened expression, his own torch-bearing arm quivering somewhat every time he did so. The boy is terrified. Tyrion's own heart began to pound. He tightened his grip on his torch. His mind began to race, thinking of what could possibly be in that cell. A young giant, perhaps, he thought. It's not impossible that they could still survive beyond the Wall. He told himself it was probably nothing, that the maester was making a mountain out of a molehill. For some reason he did not find that convincing.

After what seemed like an endless trek, they approached the ice cells. Maester Aemon extended a hand to each cell, reaching out and using his sense of touch to keep count. One. Two. Three. Tyrion just wanted him to stop, to say he had reached his destination. He cursed himself for feeling like a child in the face of whatever was waiting for him. Finally, the old maester stopped. He turned toward the very last cell and motioned for Tyrion to approach.

"There he is," he said. Tyrion found himself somewhat confused. There was nothing in the cell but a small jar. Maester Aemon withdrew some keys from his pocket and opened the door. He looked towards the pudgy boy on his arm.

"You don't want to bring it out here, do you Sam?" The boy shook his head vehemently at the maester's question. Based on the look on Samwell's face, Tyrion was amazed he hadn't pissed his pants.

"You'll have to go in to get a look at it then, Lord Tyrion," Maester Aemon said matter-of-factly. Tyrion gritted his teeth and turned back to the old man.

"What am I looking at, exactly?"

"Waymar Royce. Or what's left of him. You might have found it strange that Lord Commander Mormont did not greet you upon your arrival. That was because after tending to his wounds I wouldn't allow it. This thingattacked him in his chambers and he barely escaped with his life." Tyrion stepped into the cell, slowly approaching the jar. Each step he took seemed to reverberate throughout the cell, and he found it hard to keep his grip on the torch. His heart was pounding in his ears. He felt cold, colder than he had any right to be even when surrounded by ice.

"Don't pick it up, Lord Tyrion!" Maester Aemon shouted after him. "If you break the jar it would be a lot of trouble to get it back into another one!" Tyrion finally reached the jar and squatted down to get a good look at it. In it was a severed hand. Slowly, cautiously, he reached out and pressed his fingers against the glass. The hand leapt towards him, causing him to stumble and fall. The torch went out. The jar inched in his direction as the hand pushed it forward, animated by some unnatural power. The cold grew worse. Tyrion scrambled back the way that he came, slipping and sliding on the icy floor until he quickly made his way out of the cell. Maester Aemon slammed the door shut. The hand had stopped moving.

"It felt your warmth," he said.

"That's Waymar Royce?!" Tyrion asked.

"That's what they turned him into," Maester Aemon replied. "That's what they'll turn us all into unless we can give Prince Aegon the time he needs to become the Prince that was Promised. That is the fate of all Seven kingdoms unless the Watch can truly be the shield that guards the Realms of Men." Tyrion shook his head. He did not want to believe it. Years of learning and education had told him that what he had seen couldn't be real. But everything he had experienced had told him it was. He knew no book he had read would provide him any solace if he felt that freezing cold again.

"I suppose the Wildling threat is quite serious," he half-stammered. "Let's return to the library. I think we may have a lot more work on our hands than just rebuilding the Watch." Maester Aemon allowed himself a small smile.

"A giant indeed."