Tyrion
The least Varys could have done was live long enough to see this. Forgotten when the royal detachment left for Dragonstone, he'd had to tag along with The King in the North's sister and her bull. The ships available to them were few and so each had been packed to the hull with stormlanders. Rowdy even when sober. Mercifully the voyage to the island was short and without complication, drawing a silent prayer of thanks to whatever god had his side-eye on Tyrion Lannister that day. Catching a rare glimpse of Catelyn Stark and the Young Wolf's 'widow', he gave it another go-over. Might be it's just those two.
"Thinking of going for a dip?" "Blackwater Bay is not the Red Fork. Moving seawater is much harder." she replied, peering over the side. Talisa gave her a gentle shake and seemed to jerk her out of a fog. "Oh. It's you." she said, her dazed, disaffected tone hardening.
"Mostly." Tyrion tapped his nose. "I can't imagine Sansa will find me any more handsome for all my valor." Mention of her daughter made the water around Catelyn's eyes and mouth still, her lips tightening. They were made of water, but was the water them? He remembered the stories the Tully soldiers had spread to the rest of the riverlanders and they still to the assembled Westerosi at large. Rains to flood the forks, rains to wash away a castle. It was hard for men to appreciate the beauty of the dragons; all they saw was fire and teeth. They were no less beautiful for all that, though. Even with the stories swirling 'round the assembled armies, the others seemed to regard Catelyn and Talisa more as interesting curios. Ladies of the rivers, who milled about and kept their own morose counsel. With the power to turn a kingdom into a floodplain. Beautiful, but no less terrifying than a dragon. And dragons are mortal. Dragons tire, dragons hunger, dragons die, too. Those two do none of those things, as far as anybody knows. It was a few moments before Tyrion realized he'd been staring. "Apologies, my lady." he said, blinking. "It's just occurred to me I have yet to give you my condolences for your son's death." Her expression did not change.
"The way I hear it, I need not give you any for your lord father's own."
"No. I shot him, I'll not deny it. Should he appear wrought of gold, I'll happily let him bludgeon me to death. No bloody end of mine will make me regret what I did, though."
"Nor what we did to House Frey." Talisa spoke from behind Catelyn. "Others may crow the Red Wedding was the doing of this one, that one, but not the rest. Robb is still dead, as is the son we share who never so much as drew breath." Catelyn reached behind her and took the young woman's hand, the stormy gray whorls in the girl's rippling form slowly fading. Pus from a boil. "I can't imagine Sansa will be any more receptive of me." She held up her hands. Tyrion watched the currents whorl from her wrists, down 'round her fingertips and back up.
"You're her mother, my lady." Tyrion said, cracking a weak smile. "Worse than a grotesque, worse than a dwarf, worse than a bankrupt, worse than a patricide, I'm a Lannister. Had I so much as a penny to my name, I'd bet on you."
The days afterward were spent in front of drawings of ships, Tyrion's mind put to moving everyone and everything north as efficiently as possible. No Varys to help me, either. Just as he got everything sliding into place, the Golden Company arrived and his plans were fit only to feed the hearth. "It doesn't help that their landings are an utter shambles." he complained the night before their departure.
"From Duskendale to Storm's End and Dorne besides. We had no paymasters, no captains of the column, no greater aim than Dragonstone. An addled dwarf in the company of Dothraki and Unsullied puzzled out a better disembarking, now show me a funnier lark than that." They were in the cave, seated slipshod around several fires. In his company was Daenerys as well as Jon Snow. She favored his blather with a giggle. After a few hours new faces joined them, to Tyrion's surprise. Even hooded, even in drab clothing, there was no hiding the prince's purple eyes or the princess' Dornish face. "How did you find us?" Tyrion asked, amazed.
"Don't act intruded upon. When it takes Littlefinger half the night to find where a queen has disappeared off to on an island tiny as this one, you know she's hidden well." he replied. "I brought wine, too." At the word 'wine' heads all around them turned.
"Is it that southern stuff too sweet for flies?" Tyrion heard Tormund Giantsbane ask.
"Sweeter. And free." Their guest replied, tossing over a skin. That's one way to ingratiate yourself to people north of the Neck. Tyrion found he needed a swallow before he spoke to the beauty seated across the flames.
"Princess Arianne Martell of Sunspear." She made no reply, but a bundle of rags behind her Tyrion had mistaken for more wine spoke up.
"So says a Lannister, but a Martell might call her 'Your Grace,' as she's married to the king."
"Quentyn, be quiet." she snapped, at once the fiery Dornishwoman she appeared to be. Tyrion turned to Daenerys.
"Prince Quentyn Martell." He pondered that a moment, then wrapped his lips around a wineskin and upended it, only stopping when his cheeks hurt. Swallowing with a groan, he smiled bemusedly at the queen, hiding her mirth behind her hand as he knew she would.
"Yes." The rags said, quickly scattering to reveal a broad, plain face possessed of eyes the same earthy color as the locks that ran down its cheeks. A brick with a face. Tyrion looked to Daenerys.
"I'd do my little trick again, but I've not got enough left." he said, shaking his wineskin. Ned Umber, who happened to be passing by, immediately put a new one too heavy to lift in his free hand.The lad was staggering and very nearly collapsed into the fire but for Daenerys poking him with a stick to prop him up. Tyrion could hear the jingling of coins and saw he was wearing a small cask on his head. Is he drunk?
"I heard some of the Dorthyak lads saying they could empty a cask of ale faster than any three northmen, Jon. I had to defend our honor." He grinned, still swaying. Jon instantly turned to Tormund.
"Don't look to me. I've been here all the time, Sigorn and that Karstark have their hands full with their litter, and the merling girl's not like to start emptying casks left and right." The King in the North turned to Lord Umber.
"Who was with you, my lord?"
"I didn't have anybody with me, so I had to do it myself."
"Do what?"
"Empty a cask." Oof, thought Tyrion.
"Well, just sit yourself down, lad. Let your head stop floating." Tormund said, making room. The boy sat down next to the Martells, still grinning, coins running freely from his pockets and the last of the barrel's contents dripping down his face.
"These were minted across the last century and more." Tyrion observed, looking at some.
"The Dothraki children made a game of picking coins from the surf after the dragon's share had been collected." Daenerys said from over his shoulder. "Lord Umber, why did they give all these to you?"
"Because I won." Ned Umber said, before he collapsed backward.
Jon Snow sat there for a moment before he got up and tossed his fur cape over Umber as he snored. He sat back down without a word, looking utterly unbothered while Tormund poked the fire with the stick. The queen's gape seemed to surprise him, as did Tyrion's. The Martells and their mysterious ally were quite forgotten.
"What?" he asked.
"He's like to die!" Daenerys cried.
"Far from. No Umber has ever died of drink."
"Har!" Tormund opined.
"Northmen like drinking." Jon Snow said, he famously of little thirst. Northman to the bone, if a sober one. I can't imagine his first night back will be one he remembers the next morning, though. Nor his countrymen.
"There you are!" a loud voice called, echoing off the cavern walls. Something about it, or the loud plodding steps that accompanied it, sounded curiously irreverent to Tyrion. A big man as like Tormund Giantsbane as unlike appeared, wiry orange hair and beard appearing all the more vibrant in the firelight. "A cave's no fit place for you to rest your head, Your Grace. Not the queen's, either. The Hand says you both are better off in your cabin on Fortune." Aegon's mouth tightened.
"I spent a lifetime trying to get back to Westeros. I'm not spending my first night here on a ship." He scooped some dirt from the cave floor and let it fall from between his fingers. "Westeros. Not Essos, not the Narrow Sea." Tyrion heard the will beneath the words. He'll not turn back, not now. Only, there's nowhere to go. No throne to sit, no queen to wed, no dragon to ride.
"Still." Orange-hair looked around, markedly unimpressed by what was on the walls. Relics of the Dawn Age and he looks at them like they're the work of a child clutching a bit of charcoal. Then Tyrion's focus sharpened. The Essosi had no point of reference regarding the arrival of the Others, but those Westerosi born south of the Neck… To those of Andal descent, the Others are a drunkard's dream.
"You're Westerosi as well, I take it?" The man gave a grin, and a decidedly unfriendly one at that.
"Born to a blacksmith at Bitterbridge, common as you like."
"True as you can find, as well. Ser Rolly Duckfield, of my Kingsguard." Aegon introduced him. Tyrion's eyebrows went up. Not a Dragonknight, not a White Bull, not a Barristan the Bold. Just a big man with a sword to swing and an axe to grind. No doubt he would die for the man seated next to the princess, but that didn't make him fit for a white cloak. Then again, my opinion on such matters is scarcely one to take to heart. He subtly shifted so he could see Daenerys' reaction. Wisely she maintained an unconcerned expression, but she had known Ser Barristan Selmy and Tyrion could just imagine his reaction to the first of the prince's guardians. Puffed up ponce that he was, he'd not have been wrong about this. "Who's with Lady Mellario, then?" Aegon asked his bearded duck.
"Lord Connington's seen to her safety and comfort both, Your Grace. She's well cared for on Fortune." Tyrion had to think for a moment. Mellario of Norvos, once wife to Prince Doran Martell. They could not have known their attempt to seat this Aegon would succeed, yet they brought the princess and her mother along anyway. That was telling to Tyrion and worrying as well. They were as eager to leave Essos as reach Westeros, if not more so.
"How will you get word to the Golden Company cohorts that we're going north if they've washed up every which way?" Tyrion asked, thinking it might be best not to let everyone wear on each other's nerves too long.
"Why would we go north?" Ser Rolly asked. As if I'd said we're headed to the moon. Tyrion expected the typical dour rote from Jon Snow but the broody bastard only pointed to the nearest mural.
"Fighting to be done. Believe me, there's no use for sellswords this side of the Neck." He seemed content to make Daenerys giggle every so often, poking the fire whenever it sputtered. Still more voices came from down by the cavern entrance, but they were muted and furtive. Tyrion spotted Yezzan zo Qaggaz' bloodless face, accompanied by sellswords and dispossessed Ghiscari both.
"Gloves on. Metal if you have it, hide if you don't." He pointed this way and that, to the largest deposits of dragonglass. Bags and barrels besides.
"I thought we came across the sea to cross swords." One man grumbled to his compatriot.
"Gold is gold, and scooping up shiny shards of glass isn't a bad way to fill one's pockets." The comrade replied. They resolutely ignored the fires, acting as if the sundry kings, queens, and lords assembled were no more than rocks on the cavern floor. Jon Snow got up and started helping, not even turning to look when Tyrion heard a splatter and a loud curse in argot.
"I told you it was sharp." Qaggaz said dully, dragging a sack behind him out toward the open air. Daenerys seemed torn between staying with Tyrion and joining Jon.
"Oh, never mind me, Your Grace. Once the first haul has reached the ships, just pick a cabin and ready for the voyage. I'll be along once all the glass as can be gathered is on its way." He said, shrugging casually and swigging more wine. As the queen's silver hair vanished down the tunnel after the King in the North and the sellswords after her, Tormund Giantsbane gave a yawn.
"Think I'll get meself a nice warm cabin to coop up in, too." He walked off into the darkness in the wake of the shrinking torchlight. The questioning glances sent Tyrion's way made him weary. Still he told as much as he knew, save for what he couldn't reasonably say in good faith. What went on with Jon Snow at the Wall isn't the faintest bit my business, anyway. Nor between Daenerys and the Dothraki. Even so, once the lords of the mainland showed up in the port town rumors of all kinds promptly flew surrounding the pair and Tyrion could only shrug at the inquiries.
"He came back to life, or so they say." Rolly muttered.
"So they say. His scars are real enough. Might be he just took the knifing of a lifetime and nobody could feel a pulse in a place that cold. I wasn't there."
"You were there for the throne, though. All the lords were." Aegon said, Arianne dozing on his shoulder.
"I was." And Drogon showed the lords what dragons mean, what they are.
"And?"
"And what? The dragon turned the throne to tallow, crashed up through the ceiling and headed west over the horizon as fast as he could."
"Where, though? Where might he have gone? There's nothing to the west of Westeros, only the Lonely Light a week's steady sail from Great Wyk." At Tyrion's questioning glance, Aegon almost blushed. "Haldon taught me all the houses, particularly those less than inured to House Baratheon of King's Landing. The Greyjoys among them, and the Farwynds, among others, as their vassals."
"Nothing to reach by sail, perhaps. But Drogon is a powerful beast, if not especially graceful in the air. Strong, the way a bull or boar is strong. If there is anything to be found across the Sunset Sea, Drogon's black shadow will cover it."
"And the other two?" Quentyn, he of singularly plain looks, asked. Perhaps he sought to wed Daenerys when it became clear Aegon had designs on Arianne. The thought almost made Tyrion burst out laughing but remembering the prickly Dornish pride stifled his mirth.
"Not the first idea. All I know is they vanished shortly after we landed here. Jon Snow is of the opinion they're someplace they won't be noticed- or at least, where the people aren't able to get word out to the rest of the world."
"There's no place like that in Westeros." Quentyn said, so sure of his words. "Below the Neck, maybe. The North is huge and wild, the lands beyond the Wall even more so. When it comes to dragons, food and freedom are the key. They may be of Valyria, but heat is not so alluring to them. They're aflame on the inside, no summery land could ever warm them further. Wherever they are, they're someplace no right-thinking man would ever go."
Fatigue sprung on him so quickly it was all he could do not to mimic Lord Umber and keel over. He stood, legs sore and cramping.
"I'm off to the docks. I'd recommend you and yours return to Fortune for proper rest. Northmen and Free Folk may take to caves, but I'm too used to having something between me and the ground to much find it comfortable." He took his leave of them then, waddling out the cavern mouth and through the well-hidden crack in the mountain's base to come out into the cold night air, tinged with salt from the sea. Out from the warm cave and the drink both, with sea spray blowing in his face Tyrion found a second wind, heading toward the lights of the port town as fast as he could. Even as he made it past the gate, it occurred to him he knew not in which tavern he belonged, or on which ship. Hang it, he thought, furiously blinking sleep out of his eyes. He kept himself upright through sheer willpower, breathing heavily and all but staggering up the gangplank of the queen's flagship. I'll sleep on the bloody deck if I have to, he thought. At least here I know nobody will pitch me into the sea. Either his snores woke him or the bucket of water, but it seemed Tyrion had been asleep only moments before he was soaked to the bone and freezing besides. The sharp whipping wind was enough to smack the cry of alarm soundly from his mouth. As soon as he found his feet he was slipping on the frost-slick deck, promptly falling face first onto the wood. Gurgling unintelligibly, he tried to blink the spots out of his eyes, rolling over and stiffly sitting up. Ow, he thought. The sky was white, the morning frigid, and the snow looked likely to fall for the foreseeable future. After the dull pain subsided and the world stopped spinning, Tyrion pulled himself onto his feet with the help of the deck rail. A snowy shore was sailing past in the distance. We can't have gone so far north yet. I was asleep a night, not a week.
"Crackclaw Point." A half-familiar voice said while Tyrion steadied himself. He turned to see a stocky man in boiled leather staring out from a mess of grey hair. Small for a man-at-arms, but still tall enough to peer down that squashed nose at me.
"Lothor Brune." Tyrion said. Baelish's man, and one best kept clear of the Lords of the Reach. "Ser Lothor Apple-Eater." He corrected himself. "From the Blackwater." He got apple cores above his bear-paw sigil and I lost half my bloody nose.
"It sounded grand enough at the time. Then I heard the jest that mine was the first bear paw ever to reach for an apple." He looked singularly glum.
"A better lark than any dwarf joke I've heard, and I've heard every single one. At least you have the sword to back your reputation." Brune's presence wearied Tyrion all over again. Baelish must not be far. "Why not put a mockingbird in the paw?"
"Lord Baelish wants that least of all. Without device or decoration, I'm just another sword, and that's the way he wants it."
"Speaking of, where is he?"
"With the king he found in Essos on that bloody big ship, that Fortune, I suppose."
"Why are you not with him?"
"He told me to keep an eye out for dwarves and spiders. I was having a perfectly good time getting drunk with a few Estermont men when I saw you waddle by, burbling nonsense. The lads laughed like they hadn't in years, and I got up and followed you here." Tyrion turned to look at the shore again.
"We could be hundreds of miles north."
"Aye, but we aren't. Snow like this and in the crownlands, too. Seems a little out of sorts, even for winter." Tyrion saw no people on the shore, no trace of anyone passing through but for the other ships in Daenerys Targaryen's fleet. Unpeopled, as it might have looked to the First Men when they came to Westeros. The thought made Tyrion shiver.
"Will we have time to make Winterfell ready for a great number of visitors before the lords arrive?"
"They went on ahead as soon as all that glass got loaded. We're bringing up the rear." That seemed unwise to Tyrion. No royal buffer between the rest of Westeros and the northmen? Brune shrugged. "It was one of theirs' ideas. The wolf bastard or the dragon queen. If they were lost at sea or such, the glass would still arrive and in the hands of men who know how to use it." Planning for the worst possible outcome. Neither Jon Snow nor Daenerys Targaryen are needed to at least give battle. The austerity of the plan and its grim logic both impressed Tyrion. He knew better than to ask a lackey like Brune what his master thought of current events, but then Littlefinger had never given a straight answer in his life.
"Others, eh?" he asked neutrally. Brune shrugged.
"On Crackclaw Point it's the squishers that give children nightmares. Only, it seems they're just a race of smelly sea-dwellers content to mill about and croak at each other. Bah." His dismissal of the man-fishes did not wholly surprise Tyrion. Brune didn't look like the sort to go wide-eyed at much of anything, much less a walking fish holding a driftwood spear or even a sharp rock. But they're not made for walking around in the sun, waiting for armored knights to charge them. In the pouring rain or a gale out to sea, even Fortune would capsize from a dedicated assault. He tried to imagine one of them spurred to anger or amidst battle. The Unsullied used spears as well, but they aimed to form phalanxes and execute tactical maneuvers. Discipline that the creatures make no sign of having. I suppose they go the opposite route, then, with massed charges. Storming the enemy and overcoming them with sheer numbers. He remembered a visit to Lannisport, where he'd had to accompany his Uncle Kevan to meet with men who owned the city's fishing boats. Out on the water it was the fishermen themselves who had the glamorous task of dumping chum into the water and once they had, the surface of the sea became a freezing frenzy. More gooseprickles. I don't envy whoever or whatever finds themselves in their midst with blood in the water. While he dwelled on that singularly unpleasant memory, Brune grunted pointedly and elbowed him. Thoughts of thrashing summer sharks receded when Tyrion spotted the queen's silver hair coming out of the cabin. If he had ever seen it in a sorrier state Tyrion could not remember but her small secret smile and pink cheeks advertised the weight that had come off her shoulders. Happy to be rid of Aerys' shadow and the throne's, both. Happy, too, in her White Wolf's presence. The selfsame wolf was next out on deck, quickly wrapping Daenerys in a thick fur blanket. For her part, she leaned her head on his chest. Tyrion quickly took stock of how the other people topside felt. He saw no northmen yet knew Jon Snow would never be parted from them, figuring they must be below somewhere. A few Dothraki lads milled about, loudly talking to each other to give the impression they were not completely unnerved by the sea churning around them. Tyrion had not even attempted to learn their barbaric tongue. After all, he thought, I mangle Valyrian badly enough. No need to offend the horselords.
In only moments Tyrion was glad for the blanket around the queen's shoulders and her place in Jon Snow's arms both. The cold was truly maddening, the kind that seemed to catch in his bones and spread out rather than coming from somewhere outside. No wonder northmen like to heat their wine. When he tried to pull on gloves, his fingers were stiff and clumsy ant it took wholly longer than it ought have. I'd best be careful. I don't want to lose one to the frost. Or the rest of my nose. Here's hoping Aegon and his Essosi have clothing fit for winter proper. The crew seemed similarly unnerved by the cold, even fur clad as they were. No doubt the Dothraki are wondering just what sort of people can live in such circumstances. They looked rather absurd with fur scarves simply tied about their heads, huddling wherever they could get out of the wind's sharp cut. All the while, Jon Snow made no sign he was the least bit discomfited. If anything he seemed happier, quite quit of his normal brooding frown. Eager to be home. To bring his sister home as well, to see his wolf again perhaps. Hopefully Daenerys takes to the north and it to her. What he saw did not make him optimistic, though. She was not one to shy from cold or snow, but this was something no man should be expected to endure. I can feel my fucking eyeballs freezing. He was still cursing the north as a godsforsaken white waste when a sudden gust carried him a good two feet, bumping hard against the deck rail. Frantically he threw himself to the deck, trying to prevent himself from being blown overboard. Though certain everyone saw it, Tyrion could hear no laughter. He waited for the sudden bluster to pass before getting back to his feet. Jon Snow was not smiling anymore. Neither was he brooding- his face was wary and his grey Stark eyes were wide and watchful.
"Perhaps only necessary crew ought be topside for now." he said, voice carrying despite the wind. "We'll get a fire going in the galley and keep the crew at half shifts." So they have a chance to get warm, no doubt. Tyrion watched him send the queen below and approach the helmsman. "If it gets any worse, we'll simply make do with oars below. No need to snap the mast or lose the sail." Notably he did not go below to keep Daenerys company, instead moving about the deck and telling people to keep moving, not to sit for too long. And this during the day, with the sun out to warm us, Tyrion thought. It was much the same the day after and the day after that. Place your bets on what comes off who first. It came to pass that remaining on deck was simply too dangerous and so they quit the sail and put men at the ship's oars.
"Well, now, this isn't so bad." Tormund Giantsbane said, enthusiastic if unpracticed at pushing an oar. "Out of the cold, out of the wind, and still we're making three-quarters time. Har!" His jovial air seemed only to mystify the Essosi, who freedman or Dothraki looked positively terrified of the white world that could just be glimpsed from the galley steps. The big Thenn, Sigorn, was similarly new to rowing- though once he worked it out, could do the work of three men. That is, when Lady Karstark isn't in need of him. The babes never stopped fussing but with the wind and the constant chatter it wasn't so much a bother. I'd rather listen to fussy babes than freezing wind, howling loud as a pack of direwolves.
Tyrion was just grateful he could have a piss without having to worry about it freezing midstream when he noticed Jon Snow talking to the helmsman. Waddling over, rubbing the ever-present cold from his arms, he noticed the queen present as well, her hair hidden in a fur hood. I didn't even notice her at first. Their faces were all he needed to see to know something had gone awry.
"Well?" he prompted.
"We've lost the fleet." The helmsman said, barely audibly. He doesn't want to spread panic. Still, Tyrion felt his stomach sink most unhelpfully.
"We're all headed to the same place. I suppose it doesn't matter who gets there first. If anything, the others will have a good laugh at our expense being feasted by the Manderlys while they wait for us to show up." Jon Snow replied, shrugging.
"Your Grace, it's not that simple. I've tried to find our bearing and we could be headed across the Narrow Sea or straight back to Dragonstone for all I know. Whenever I look outside, all I see is white and gray." That made Jon Snow swallow. The boy beneath the king, though he grows fainter every day.
"Just keep a steady pace. We can't have gone so far off course. With land to our left, we'll know we're still going the right way."
"If you say so, Your Grace." The helmsman said, shrugging and getting to it. While Jon Snow's broodiness crept back into his face and Daenerys pursed her lips, Lothor Brune came over, fresh off an oar. Tyrion introduced him, the knight nodding to the pair.
"Is there something you need, Ser Lothor?" Daenerys asked.
"Need? Well, Your Grace, it'd be awfully grand of you for one of your dragons to show up and give us a good warm." She seemed unable to tell if the man was jesting or giving insult. Evidently Brune noticed but before he could excuse himself the whole ship gave a sudden loud groan- and then the lot of them were thrown into each other, the floor beneath them rising and falling freely. Lovely. The rat in the dog's mouth again. There was a loud thud as something struck the deck. That better have been a barrel or a loose bucket. The helmsman passed Tyrion by as he went to check, muttering darkly about winter weather. When he did not return after a few moments, Tyrion took it upon himself to go bringing the man back down before the wind took him. Before he could enjoy freedom from the steadily worsening smell below the cold hit him and he swore loudly. Hunching his shoulders, it was a moment before he noticed the wind had died down.
"Finally." On looking to port he saw they were at the mouth of some bay, a hazy hint of land still further north. "It's still colder than can be believed, but without the wind it's not half so bad." He tried to figure where they might have ended up. We must be in the Vale's waters. "Strange that it should go so quickly, though."
"Nothing strange about it. Just the calm." The man replied. "Before that." He pointed north. Tyrion looked and felt his jaw drop, his insides turning quick to ice. The entire northern horizon was filled with white, a blizzard that defied his mind's attempts to fully take it in. Flashes came and went in the tempest, the same as oft happened in storm clouds high overhead. Is that lightning? Then the rumbling began. At first Tyrion took it for thunder, louder even than the hammering in his chest. Then he screwed up his ears, wondering if he'd simply gone mad. There was something to the rumbling, a rhythm, a cadence. A voice, he thought weakly. That's a voice. He heard others coming up the steps behind him. The blizzard, or tempest, or whatever it was continued to roll squarely toward them. All the while the voice got louder, stronger, clearer. The voice of a god, Tyrion thought. Singing up a storm for the ages.
Whoever had come up after him went straight back down at the sight of the storm. He tried to move, to get his legs to carry him to shelter belowdecks, but it wasn't until the hail began to bounce off his face in painful little jabs that he found himself moving. It was a shambles, everyone either clinging onto each other hiding under tables or stuffing themselves into crannies. Outside, the god-song grew still louder until Tyrion could feel it in his feet. He was just debating whether to simply hide in a barrel when he caught sight of the queen and Jon Snow prone in each other's arms. There was no hiding the tears streaking down her cheeks, but her face was determinedly listening to the King in the North's words.
"Hold onto me," he kept saying. "and I'll hold onto you." Then Tyrion was less a rat in a dog's mouth, more a sheep in a dragon's jaws. He flew from one end of the ship to the other, cracking his head on the floor and his knee on the ceiling. So quick was the flurry of blows he couldn't even catch his breath. It seemed whenever he found floor again, there was another peal of thunder and once more the ship's interior spun. He heard the mast burst, sure as a child snapping a twig. Again his face met the side of the ship, a slurred curse all he could manage before he was pitched about once more. Only when he felt a hand clasp fast 'round his ankle did the madness stop, another hand gripping his shoulder and pulling him close. Tyrion was too dazed to take hold himself, arms hanging limply at his sides while unconsciousness called to him. The storm continued to pitch the ship to and fro but he was no longer bouncing off its insides, able finally to catch his breath.
"Hold onto me," he heard in High Valyrian, "and I'll hold onto you." He fought to keep his eyes open. I know that voice, he thought. His arms felt like they had bricks hanging off them, yet still he brought them up to come around the queen's waist. Please let it end soon, he prayed. To whom, he had no notion. Surely the Seven had no power and less over whatever had sent the storm. Let us get off the sea before it claims the lot of us. He bit down on his tongue to keep himself from passing out, the pain fending off the tantalizing prospect of simply giving up. "Tyrion." The queen's voice was soft, almost terrifying in its soothing tone. "Tyrion." He realized the ship had ceased to shake, the world gone blessedly still and quiet. Only then did he let go, finding himself on the floor of the ship. I'd rather fight the Mountain than go through that again. Then the ship gave another lurch and it was all Tyrion could do not to break down sobbing. Then he realized it had come from the ship running aground. Faster than he could think he was topside, all but jumping off the deck to reach the snow-covered shore. He could not have cared less where they had been forced to shore, just then he could not have imagined wanting anything more than steady ground beneath his feet. Not warmth, not wine, not a woman.
The others gave him space while they disembarked, and more than once Tyrion could hear someone vomiting freely from the ride they had been given. One among them was the queen, who seemed singularly worse for wear. Get up, Halfman. He rose as quickly as he could manage, staggering over to her. Jon Snow had her seated on his leg, her hair held out of her face as she did what she had to. When she came up, she was ashen and she looked mortified. Tyrion snorted derisively.
"Tepid, Your Grace." Then he turned away from them and utterly outclassed her, feeling as though he'd never want to eat again.
"Where are we, anyway? Some kneeler-land or other?" He heard Tormund ask loudly.
"The Vale." Jon Snow answered.
"Aye? The place all them knights came from as helped us quash the Boltons?" Tormund sounded rather pleased.
"Forget the Boltons. How are we supposed to get back to Winterfell without a ship?" Lady Karstark asked, looking rather frazzled. She had a babe in each arm and the Poole girl kept close to her with the third. Well, at least they all made it.
"I doubt a ship would get us any further than this." Tyrion replied. They all looked at him. "Come off it. You all heard the voice same as me. If we try the sea again, we'll end up thrown right back onto the shore. If we're lucky." Little Lord Umber, fresh off his own hands and knees, looked at a loss.
"We could try going true north. To the Bite. Might be some Sisterman would be good enough to take us further on to White Harbor…"
"You don't know the Vale, lad. The mountains alone would stop us, not to mention the hill tribes, shadowcats, rockslides…"
"No god-song, though. No tempest-blizzards that fill the whole horizon." Umber countered. "The Mountains of the Moon are no less navigable, my lord. Truly. I was the unwilling guest of Catelyn Tully once upon a time. During captivity I saw just how perilous travelling through the Vale could be without a sturdy armed escort and people who knew where they were going." Silence but for the water lapping against the snowy shore. At least the Narrow Sea has yet to freeze. He spotted Sigorn staring up at the mountains, tongue between his teeth.
"They're not the 'Fangs." he said after some thought.
"I should bloody well hope not. The Mountains of the Moon are quite ordeal enough." Tyrion replied. He looked about to try and spot anyone else. Jon Snow was quickly doing up the queen's cloak to keep her as warm as could be managed Lady Karstark, her Thenn and the Poole girl each had a babe in their arms, trying to calm their crying. He spotted the boy lord Umber pop off the top of a barrel that had slid off the deck, pulling out a wineskin and tossing it to Brune to share with Tormund. I could be stranded on some bleak shore with worse.
He remembered his hatred for the mountains after a scant hour of walking. Everyone makes short jokes, he thought, but what truly burns me is when I can't keep up. For his stunted build, Tyrion Lannister's arms and legs had no want for stamina. That much the gods vouchsafed me. Still, his calves began to burn and ache long before he saw signs of weariness in the others. I doubt I'll see it in the Thenn at all. He was born to mountains, if anything he ought to feel more at home here than in the Haunted Forest. He wondered if Jaime would do any better walking up and down, snaking around boulders and ears strained for sudden rockslides. His time at war was spent ahorse or in a cell. More than once he nearly lost his footing and the ground only became more treacherous and ever steeper the further into the Mountains of the Moon they went. With a party numbering less than a dozen it was difficult but manageable, so far. Not so with an army. He knew well the countless tales of armies breaking against the Bloody Gate. Failing to reach the Eyrie, much less take it. When the day's light began to fade, Jon and Sigorn both attested that the best thing to do would be find a place where a fire could be kindled and wait for dawn.
"Mountains familiar as your mother's face are treacherous whores. It's rank madness to go plodding about in the pitch dark here, where the stone is strange." The Thenn opined. The rest of them together had not half so much experience with such terrain and so they got about looking for shelter. Sigorn found a small cave but he and Jon Snow seemed unsure as to whether using it was wise. When Tyrion asked why, Snow only pursed his lips.
"We're on a game trail. Sheep and goats wander through here to reach other grazing grounds, and like as not the shadowcats slink over the same stones in hot pursuit." Sigorn informed Tyrion. He looked at his feet. I see no difference between where I'm standing now and where I stood an hour ago, save the elevation. Castle-born folk don't belong out here, no more than wildlings belong in the confines of a city. "Had we Ghost we'd leave here with goat meat and shadowcat skins both." Jon Snow said forlornly. Tyrion was more knowledgeable when Daenerys asked how the cave had come to be, why traces of old firepits lingered in the cavern floor.
"The tribes that call these mountains home have learned their every pebble. Perhaps this is a place they use when far from their homes proper, out on a hunt or such. Given the season it's unlikely they'll come while we're here."
The stink that came while Jon Snow and Sigorn labored over the kindling made the queen cough. Sigorn went for his axe and Jon Snow for his wolf-sword, Brune quickest to it with a knife in each hand, but they paused at the look on Tyrion's face. Slowly he got up and walked into the night, stopping just outside the cave mouth.
"The Stone Crows are accomplished at hiding in the mountains," he said, "but there is no hiding the stink of Shagga, son of Dolf." The trees and twisted trails could have held a hundred savages out of sightbut the men who stepped out from hiding looked scarcely like the Stone Crows he remembered. Shagga led them as he had when Tyrion last saw him, but the big man had lost at least three stone. The others with him were in a similar sorry state, half-starved and sunken-eyed. Shagga looked dumbfounded. Either at Tyrion's reappearance in his homeland, at being found out purely on merit of odor, or just because Shagga's mind oft ran slow where matters of combat or pillage were not concerned. When there was no forthcoming reply, Tyrion thought quickly but spoke slowly, so as not to confuse the tribesmen. "We were coming up the coast when a storm straight from hell pushed us onto the rocks. It sounded as though some god or other took issue with us reaching White Harbor." While Tyrion pondered if Shagga even knew what White Harbor was, Shagga stepped up to him as he always did when he wanted to throw his weight around. Rather less to throw these days, though.
"The gods have gone, Tyrion son of Tywin." He grunted. "The Stone Crows will hear no more of gods, or Shagga son of Dolf will-"
"Yes, yes." Tyrion interrupted, waving his hands impatiently. "Though I see you have no goats."
"Shagga will make do. Shagga remembers the lessons the Halfman taught the clans." Is that humor?
"Whereas I remember you being rather bigger-"
"Shagga has not eaten well since the snows began to fall. The Stone Crows followed him from the forest near the Halfman's smelly city when armored men began to arrive. Stone Crows are fierce fighters, but to stay would have been death. The road back was flooded in many places, and the Stone Crows were not the only clan to lose many men to the logs with teeth that filled the swollen rivers."
"Lizard-lions are a prickly lot." Tyrion agreed grimly.
"These lizard-lions were proofed against even the steel the Halfman gave. The men were not so proofed against their teeth in boiled leather and hauberks." So matter of fact, even in disaster.
"You needn't fear them any longer. They'll not follow you into the mountains." Shagga snorted.
"Shagga son of Dolf is not simple, Halfman. These lizard-lions like space and rivers and deep water free of salt. There is no space, there are no rivers and there is no water free of salt deep enough for them to want here. It is not these lizard-lions that make our number smaller by the night, that swallow whole tribes in a wash of corpses sure as a rockslide."
"Corpses?" Tyrion heard Jon Snow ask behind him. He turned to see the bastard emerging from the cave, followed by Sigorn. Daenerys came out as well, Jon Snow to Tyrion's approval letting her stand on her own.
"Shagga heard the sounds of a fire being built. The cold can kill a man, but a fire will kill us all." Tyrion's eyes went wide while Jon Snow took the raider in.
"Corpses with blue eyes." He said. Low muttering broke out among the Stone Crows.
"Blue eyes only fire can close." Shagga agreed. "Who are you?"
"Jon Snow, and I know the blight that plagues you. All too well, in fact."
"Jon Snow knows then, the ones that shepherd the dead."
"Aye. A cold race from white lands that have never seen a sunrise." Shagga looked at him for a long time.
"Shagga has seen them, holding swords of sharpened ice and wearing armor that shifts to match what lies around it. They scale sheer ice, leave no tracks in fresh-fallen snow and make dead men dance whenever it pleases them." Jon Snow nodded.
"The Others, we call them."
"What does Jon Snow call their allies?" For the first time, Tyrion saw Jon Snow completely shocked.
"The dead men?"
"Dead men are dead men. Shagga speaks of great tall monsters, half again as tall as men, with long noses for sniffing out hot meat and whose bodies close any wounds they take as soon as they are given." Sigorn looked no more composed than Jon Snow, so it took a hard elbow from Daenerys to bring the King in the North back to ground.
"Is there more Shagga can tell of these creatures?"
"Better still, Shagga can show you." Oh, this is a bad idea.
"We'd best go now. The Others see in darkness what a man cannot with the sun overhead and will hide from the dawn."
"Not if they are not expecting battle, not when things need doing."
"What would an Other do with a free moment?"
"If Jon Snow will hold his tongue, Shagga will not cut it out for him." When word got around that the Others had beat them to the Vale with their chattel and other, more mysterious elements both, nobody was keen to huddle in the cave and wait for Jon Snow's ranging to return. Those with weapons held them tight and close, while Daenerys took charge of the baby girl Sigorn had been holding to free his hands. Accompanied by the Stone Crows, they set off on a winding path through the mountains that seemed to go in every direction. No wonder the hill tribes have never kneeled to the Andals, Tyrion thought. They are children of the mountains as the Arryns never could be. More than once the lot of them were forced to ground or into snowbanks when some noise or other spooked Shagga but nothing sought to make a meal of them.
"Whatever became of Timett or Chella?" Tyrion asked when they stopped longer than usual.
"Timett fed a lizard-lion. Chella was lost when the webs began to fill the trees around the falcons' nest."
"Webs?" Tyrion asked, skin breaking out in gooseprickles.
"The Others have spiders big as hounds, big as horses." Tormund muttered from behind him. Wonderful. Just preceding a rocky outcropping, Shagga halted. He turned to Jon Snow.
"Press flat to the stone and look down. Do not move. Do not scream." Tyrion was puzzled until he spotted the thin jut of rock that ran perhaps ten feet from the ridge. Perfect for a man to lay on and espy the movements of knights in the Vale of Arryn below and the Bloody Gate besides. At least the mystery behind the hill tribes' knack for avoiding the Knights of the Vale had been solved. While Jon Snow duly followed Shagga's instructions, somewhat impressing the mountain clansman, Tyrion took a breath and peeked over the ridge proper. It seemed the stone fell away from his perspective, the Vale of Arryn rolling out on the valley floor below. Dizzying as the view was, Tyrion could see masses of men moving about, like ants around their hill. No, not men, he corrected himself. More striking were the taller lighter figures that barged through the dark masses utterly unmolested, heading where they pleased. What in the gods' name are those?
"Those aren't Others." Jon Snow called back as if in answer. "Others are not so tall, and they don't shove wights out of the way just to do it."
"Those are." Shagga replied. "Near the gate." Tyrion could hear the stone shift, so eager was Jon to get a look at them. He heard the King in the North's breath hitch. Must be them, then.
Tyrion moved over to better view the Bloody Gate. A fitting name. The fortification swarmed with wights, moving atop it keeping their dead watch or else filing out from the Vale onto the high road. And then on into Westeros proper.
"That must be the Eyrie." Jon observed.
"Aye, sky cells, Moon Door and all." Tyrion replied. Possibly my least favorite place in Westeros. "It's impossible to keep supplied in the winter, though, so the Arryns close it and retire to the Gates of the Moon at the base of the Giant's Lance."
"Who builds a castle next to impossible to keep, heat, feed?" Lord Umber asked from the rear, teeth chattering.
"The Eyrie is impregnable, or so they say." Tyrion replied.
"Not to ice spiders, it seems. I can see webs on the Bloody Gate and that stump of a castle at mountain's base both."
"Nor to dragons." Daenerys added. "Visenya flew up there on Vhagar and the Vale became Aegon's that very day."
"Bully for Aegon. Without Drogon the Eyrie's as out of reach as the sky itself."
"This Drogon is free to try and take the falcons' nest." Shagga snorted in derision.
"Drogon is a dragon, not a man." Daenerys said crossly. Oh, did I forget to mention it? Tyrion thought, turning to Shagga.
"Have I got a tale for you." A long bone-chilling hooting sound filled the air. Immediately the tall figures on the valley floor moved for the comparative shelter of the rocks. The wights, puppets that they were, remained where they stood. The sky, grey-white as ever, suddenly shimmered, grey where white ought be and vice versa. What the- Tyrion's thought froze solid as something sailed momentarily into view. The creature was barely visible so perfectly did its body match the sky, but Tyrion saw sure as sunrise the graceful neck tapering to a long, needly head, the pair of legs, the tail, the wings that held the animal aloft. A dragon, he thought in rapturous terror, but when it was joined by others of its kind, his dismay subsided. No. Too small, too skinny, and not nearly so independent. Some small corner of his mind remembered reading about the differences between true dragons and the bestial wyverns of Sothoryos as a boy. Graceless plodding brutes without a thought but for their appetites. The animals that lazily circled in loose formation above the Vale of Arryn were no wyverns, though. If anything, they were the total opposite. Sleek, fast, and hunting in unison. And where a wyvern will suffer no rider, it appears these creatures have no such prejudice, he thought, spotting figures on the backs of several of the animals.
"Can they see us?" Daenerys whispered.
"I'm sure they can. The more pertinent question, I think, is do they see us?" Tyrion answered, all but pulling Jon Snow back off the stony shelf. The creatures remained in view a few moments more before disappearing back into the freezing sky.
"It is a nest for something else now." Shagga finished. Something we have no answer for, should the dragons remain absent. Coming down from the ridge, Tyrion's mind could not focus on one thought for more than a second or two. A bizarre urge to laugh reared in his throat and only with effort did he choke it down. They must be nesting in the Eyrie, where the air is coldest. They must not like getting too warm or surely they'd have dived to snatch up a wight or two. But if their present circumstances were too warm, with teeth chattering, limbs stiff and faces frosty… Tyrion's excitement tempered with the old pain at hearing all the dragons had died. We could not get someone atop one even if it were willing. The cold they prefer is too much for any man. Still, the thought that mad Lysa Arryn's impregnable fortress had become the roost of hitherto unknown creatures from the trackless depths of the Land of Always Winter made Tyrion want to laugh until he cried.
The rest of the journey through the Mountains of the Moon was comparatively dull. Painfully so, Tyrion thought, rubbing his legs for what felt like the thousandth time. They moved during the day, hiding at night and huddling together to keep the dread chill out. Always they watched the sky, ears straining for the creatures' hooting. After all, we'll hear them before we'll see them. The Stone Crows' path avoided the castles of the Vale as an added refinement, taking them squarely away from where the wights would congregate in the largest numbers.
"After all," Jon Snow said one evening, "the fewer people there are to kill, the fewer there are to rise again. Out here where nobody lives, I think we should be fine."
"Fine for now, Jon, but what happens at trek's end? We can't hide in these mountains forever, we'll freeze or starve and never mind the Others, their brutes, their spiders, their dead men or their flying lizards." Daenerys asked. Tyrion had been pondering that same dilemma and could see no rosy finish, himself.
"Assuming we make it the rest of the way through the Mountains of the Moon, we'll find ourselves on the southern shore of the Bite without a ship. Perhaps White Harbor has sent out patrols looking for us. Even if they have, there's no guarantee they'll find us before we die from the elements." He expected to see the old dour northern grimace on Jon Snow's face but quite defying Tyrion's expectations, the King in the North seemed almost resigned. He is afraid, but not of the Others. They pressed on northwest through the mountains until the air came easier in Tyrion's chest and the intermittent lightheadedness left him for good. Thank the gods. Though still freezing, it was beyond a doubt too warm for the Other's flying mounts and so attitudes relaxed as much as the situation allowed. Incredibly, in Tyrion's opinion, not a one of the three babes died on their passing through the Vale. When Daenerys expressed her own happiness that they had survived, Alys Karstark only smiled.
"Aynikka, Harra, Torrha. Half Karstark and half Thenn, they're too stubborn by half to let a little cold steal them out of a world they've only just come into." Sigorn had spent the last few days talking the Stone Crows and other scattered clansmen who'd joined them to accompany them still further.
"There's food and drink at the wolf castle," he told them, "and proper wild girls who will take an ear off with their teeth if you step wrong around them." The prospect of slowly starving to death in the mountains of his birth did not seem overly attractive to Shagga and his tribesmen, and so once more Tyrion found them his companions for the foreseeable future. He's an utter brute, of course, but there have been worse men. Really, it's his stench that puts me off. Glimpsing a line of deep, dark green that unfurled to the north seemingly in defiance of the white that ruled all else, a slow realization dawned on Tyrion.
"Uh, Your Grace?" he asked of Jon Snow their last night in the mountains. Daenerys had to gently tug his elbow to make him see Tyrion had addressed him and not her.
"What is it, my lord?"
"Ah, it's just that something's come into view."
"Has it?" Jon Snow asked, carefully cleaning a bighorn sheep Lord Umber had spotted earlier.
"I would like to make expressly clear that freezing to death on the shores of the Bite, while no doubt an ignoble end, may well be less of an ordeal than certain other options." Lothor Brune, close-mouthed to a fault, continued cleaning the carcass. All the while, he listened intently.
"What other options might those be, my lord?"
"Well, it seems to me in rather poor taste to press the hospitality of a people who might take a dim view of Lannisters on their land."
"Shagga son of Dolf has led the Halfman through the mountains on a path Dolf showed him, who was shown by Holger, who was shown by Bragol. Any one of whom would have slain Tyrion son of Tywin where he stood."
"He's rather right, my lord. I can scarcely think of a place outside the westerlands your family is not reviled." Umber said, almost apologetically. Do I have to say it?
"Do you mean to take us through the Neck?" Brune dropped the leg he was holding; Umber's eyes went wide as plates and tears formed in Alys Karstark's own. Jon Snow ignored the reactions of those who'd grown up hearing stories of the Neck and those who lived within it.
"It's part of the North. We can stick to the kingsroad-"
"Which has absolutely, certainly, without a single doubt been flooded."
"It won't take us long. A week or two and then we make Moat Cailin. White Harbor after that, where we can rest and press on to Winterfell. Hopefully ahorse, with the rest of the lords alongside." Though the others had no inkling of what must lie waiting beneath that seamless mat of green, Tyrion suddenly felt ready to walk straight back up the mountain and start waving his hands at the Others. Or better yet, pitch myself off the ridge. A quicker end, and cleaner, than any crannogman will give a Lannister.
