Tyrion

Not everyone woke up at dawn. Most of the dead were those who had been wounded. A few were those who had surrendered to despair after being… touched. He didn't need to issue the order to burn them. The men knew what to do automatically now. They knew the dangers of not burning the dead.

Tyrion looked up at the dark and cloudy skies and then nodded. "Break the camp down. We march in an hour." The assembled men nodded and then quickly started the process of packing up. It was faster than it had been a few months earlier. They knew how little time they had.

As Tyrion mounted he pulled out the map and peered down at it. South to the next waypoint and more supplies. Thank the Gods that Willas Tyrell was Lord of Highgarden now and not his fool of a father. A wry smile lifted his lips for a moment, before vanishing. Ah, the sins of their fathers.

A presence to one side caught his attention and he looked over to see Sandor Clegane approach on foot. "I've sent the boy on ahead with his nursemaids."

"Good." He winced a little at the thought of his nephew. "How is he this morning?"

"No change. Still as a statue and about as useful."

Another wince. He had never liked the brat, but no-one deserved what had happened to him. "We do what we can for family, Clegane."

A savage smile was sent his way. "Don't I know it. Best day of my life when I burnt what was left of my brother's body."

The wind shifted briefly and Clegane sniffed – and then stiffened. "We need to get moving. They're coming."

"The colder it gets the bolder they become. The Gods alone know what it's like in the North now."

"They'll hold out. The Stark's are too fucking stubborn to give in."

"Aye, well, the North has been outflanked well and truly."

Clegane nodded reluctantly and then paused. "Riders coming up from the South."

Tyrion looked over at the little body of mounted men approaching. They bore tattered banners, but he recognised the two leading them. Ah, the last Lords of the Iron Islands. Such irony. "Lord Greyjoy. Lord Harlaw. What news from the South?"

"Little and mixed," Theon Greyjoy told him. "Lord Lannister. The wind is getting colder."

"The wind is always getting colder. We will be on the road shortly. What news?"

"The fleet made it to Oldtown. The dead were all burnt."

"Good. And the bad news?"

"No help will come from Dorne. The Bone Road is closed. Not a man will march to help us. And there is no word from the Crownlands or anywhere East. Not since the King vanished into the Riverlands, trying to break in to relieve the North."

Tyrion shook his head. "King Robert continues to think of the Others as an enemy who responds to the usual threats and military conventions. They are not. If he keeps campaigning as normal then he will die. Along with all his men. Folly! Folly piled upon folly!"

"There's been enough of that here to go around," Theon Greyjoy muttered, his voice heavy with grief. "If only people had listened to the Starks."

Tyrion fixed the young man with a gimlet eye. "If only your father had been less fixated by revenge and my own father less puffed up with pride to listen to the Starks you mean." He sighed. Well, there was more than enough blame to go around. Father's pride, Cersei's stupidity, Jaime's arrogance, Joffrey's insanity…

The wind picked up again – and then he smelt it. Smelt them. "Set more fires. They march on us. We must run."

"Aye," said Lord Harlaw. "They march from the charnel house that was the Rock. We brought more dragonglass for your rearguard."

"We will need it," Clegane said stonily. "You were right - they are here."

Tyrion turned to see the figures on the horizon and felt that now-familiar terror grip his heart. "Men of Westeros! We march!"

He came awake with a cry of alarm, the sheet partly entangled around him. His forehead was damp with sweat and he felt his heart pound under his ribs. Terror? From a dream? And what had that dream been about? He shivered a little at the fading memories that seemed to fade like smoke in the wind, before concentrating hard on them. What a dream. He had been… Lord of Casterly Rock? Father had died. Well, a dream where that happened had to be a good one. Cersei had died as well. Then he shivered again. Jaime had died, and Uncle Kevan.

Everyone had died. Apart from a few.

He looked down at the book that now lay on the floor. Aha. He'd been reading about the Others again and the tails of the North. No wonder he'd had that dream. Wincing slightly he scrubbed at his face with hands and then looked at the window. Dawn. He thought about snatching a tad more sleep but then shook his head. No, they had to get on the road as soon as possible. He had no idea why he felt that he needed to be in Winterfell as soon as possible, he just felt it. He'd been feeling this pull along the road for more than three days now.

As he dressed quickly he thought about it. Well, part of the pull had to be the need to get away from The Twins as soon as possible. Walder Frey's poisonous resentment and anger at any perceived insult had unsettled him. But what else was it? What else could it be? And just what was going on?

Moat Cailin had been a shock. The fortress had obviously fallen on hard times, given the fact that the Starks were no longer the Kings of the North. He had seen at once that the fortress was not just manned but being slowly repaired, with large parts – the parts with the most easily repaired roofs and walls – being restored by a group of grim-faced men under a banner of a black lizard-lion on a green field. House Reed. It had been Lord Howland Reed who had sent them, the leader of the men had said. The fortress would be needed as a waypoint. And it had to be protected.

Protected from whom? Tyrion had asked. The man – Mat by name – had looked grim and then admitted that a great number of unknown people had passed through the Neck along an old, in fact ancient, way. "Old path," Mat had grumbled. "Not used for many long years as we found newer, shorter paths. So how did they know? Lord Reed is worried – he left for Winterfell long before you arrived my Lord. And he left word to repair as much as we could with the tools we had available."

They had left them there. Emmon and the others had picked up on his worry and had watched the sides of the road even harder than before. And the further North they came the more worried he became. People were clearing more land for planting than he thought possible. Copses and woods seemed to have a constant trickle of people going in and out with as much wood as possible. "Winters comes," one man had called out to them. "The Long Winter."

The crowd in the inn that they had stayed the night in had agreed. It was a sturdy place that was becoming sturdier apparently by the day. There had been much talk about how the Stark needed aid, about how the Stark had the right of things and that the Stark was due their loyalty. The parties of men working on the King's Road confirmed that. The road, it was said, was in the best shape that it had ever been in since people could remember.

Tyrion gathered the last of his things and then stumped out of his room and down the stairs. The landlord was quietly talking to Emmon about the road ahead and they both paused and nodded respectfully at him as he approached. "Landlord, my thanks for the hot water for the bath last night. A little something extra for your trouble." And he passed over a little pouch of silver.

The landlord beamed in delight and then nodded again. "My thanks, my Lord. I was telling your man here that the next inn is about a day's ride from here and is about three days from Winterfell. Be warned though – I have heard that the inn has changed hands this past year and is now run by… well, 'tis said that he's something of a neer-do-well. Count the iron nails on the shoes of your horses before you get there."

"We shall indeed," smiled Tyrion and then he nodded and waddled out to where his men were making ready. Once Emmon joined them and they all mounted he looked about, saw the nods of acknowledgement and then raised a hand.

They made good time on that good road. That repaired road – it was obvious where the repairs had been made. That was something else that had struck him. Lord Stark knew about the importance of such things.

Tyrion nodded to himself as they rode on. He would send word to Father about this as soon as they reached Winterfell. If the North was starting to prepare now for not just winter but a long and terrible winter then the Westerlands needed to start to get ready as well.

They ate their luncheon – wine or beer from flasks, with whatever food the inn had provided them with – near a great crag and as he ate Tyrion looked at that crag with questioning eyes. At some point in the past someone had carved a path in the side of it, leading upwards. That path was shattered and worn in places, but he found himself wondering what it had been used for. He had seen a few other places like it since that they had passed North of the Neck, into the North itself. This was a place filled with many such old remnants. They all fascinated him. Many were in sight of each other and he wondered if perhaps they had once held signals or beacons, or just been a chain of… what?

It was an interesting thought and he looked forwards to looking through the books again when they reached the next inn. And when they did he remembered the words of the landlord of the last inn, because the man had been absolutely right. The place looked as if it had seen better days, not through ill-use but rather through incompetence and deliberate neglect. For one thing the sign with its name had fallen off and not been repaired.

The stable looked bad and Emmon took one look at it and promptly had the rest of the men start to clean out the section that the apathetic ostler had found for them. Fouled bedding was forked out, clean water was provided and the dung was shovelled out. In fact they actually shamed the ostler into action in the other areas, including the spot where a rather thin mare was stabled. Tyrion cast a pitying eye on her and then fed her a handful of oats, which she ate with gusto.

And the inside of the inn was just as bad. The landlord of this place was apparently named Edwyn. He was a large unshaven shambling man who exuded the smell of damp sweat and bad sanitation of his lower regions, not that Tyrion wanted to think about that.

The people within the inn looked like a combination of people who were merely passing though, as fast as they could, and the kind of scum that floated to the top of the waters of any sewer. The latter seemed to be mostly from the Riverlands, although there were a few Northmen there as well.

The place actually fell silent as Tyrion and his men strode in and he could see that the sluggish thoughts in the minds of the slowest men were dragging their way towards 'japes' about the evening's juggling entertainment having arrived. The fact that Emmon placed a hand on his sword and glared around the room with the look of a homicidal maniac meant that no-one actually said a word.

Normally Tyrion would have smiled and made a few pleasant remarks, as he had in the last inn. This was not the place to do that. Instead he glared around himself, noted a free spot by the fire and then strode over to it, pulling off his gauntlets as he went. "Your best food and wine landlord. Fit for a Lannister."

"A Lannister?" someone murmured and then there was a laugh – until Emmon glared around again.

"Tyrion Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, etc, etc, etc. Heading to Winterfell in case anyone asks, to see Lord Stark." As he said those last words Tyrion could see a figure in the shadows turn his head sharply to stare at him.

When the food eventually turned up he had to force it down. If this was the best that the inn could do then he would have hated to see its worst. The meat was possibly badly abused mutton. The stew that it sat in was fatty. And the wine was barely drinkable. From the grimace that came from Emmon and his men, the ale was just as bad.

"We are staying here for as little time as possible," Tyrion muttered in Emmon's ear. "If the food and drink are this bad I fear that the bedding will give us fleabites at the very least."

"Aye, and I'll set guards on the horses and the rooms we sleep in tonight," Emmon replied. "Old Hackett was right at the Inn of the Red Fire – we should check the number of nails in the shoes of our horses when we leave."

"An excellent point," Tyrion replied, before encountering what felt like a piece of pure gristle in the stew. "Urgh." He finished what he could and then pushed the plate away.

The light from the main fire was just enough to read by and he pulled out a small book and opened it, something that seemed to flabbergast many in the room. Oh look, illiterates. Sadly something all too common these days. Then he looked out of the corner of his eye. The figure that had been staring at him earlier was now staring even harder.

Grumbling a little the landlord – Dickon by name, which seemed to suit him down to the ground – put some more wood on the fire after someone complained and as the light penetrated the fug of a miasma of sweaty bodies and dripping noses he could see the person who was staring at him a little better.

Much to his surprise he was a she. She was a woman of about his age, maybe a little younger, wrapped in a cloak. She was thin, as if she had been ill and she was… well she was not ugly, but neither was she beautiful. She was, in a word, striking. Forceful even. She had a nose that was a little prominent and a chin that was square. And above all a look of angry despair.

This was interesting. As he read he heard Emmon quietly mutter instructions to the others about setting guards and about the fact they were amongst a pack of neer-do-wells, as they had been warned. Oh and no-one should even think about a woman here. There was probably pox all over the place. Which was sadly a good point and he resigned himself to a few more nights of celibacy. Winterfell would have some good places, of that he had been assured.

Some of the men left to take their places and as they did Tyrion became aware that the landlord was having some kind of gloating argument with the woman in the cloak, who was glaring at the fat oaf with enough hatred to have reduced a less observant man to a pile of smoking ash.

"Emmon," he said quietly, "That woman has been staring at me. Would you be so kind as to find out, discreetly, why she is arguing with our greasy host?"

The man nodded shortly and then wandered over, clearing a way with his own magnificently contemptuous glare. He was gone for no small amount of time as he talked quietly to a few people and when he returned his face was grim.

"She is Dacey Surestone, only child of Lord Surestone, who was the lord of a keep about five days hard ride West of here, my lord."

"Surestone… not a name I am familiar with."

"They say that it's an old house my Lord. Old, proud and poor – and distant cousins to the Starks. Anyway, Lord Surestone lost his wife many years ago – dead in childbirth with a son who died the same day – and never remarried, so he brought the girl up almost as his heir. Problem was that he had a male heir in the guise of a son of a cousin of his."

"By what name?"

"Ser Willem Bootle."

"Bootle. What a wonderful name. Wait… I have heard of him. Isn't he that idiot from the Riverlands who alienated all his neighbours?"

"Aye, that's the man. But there may be more to him than that. He was visiting Surestone when the old lord died, sudden-like. He immediately dismissed the Maester, told everyone that he had sent a raven to Winterfell himself with the news of Lord Surestone's death, effectively drove out the girl after she told him that she'd marry a sheep before she married him and then more or less looted the place before having it all locked up so that he could bugger off back to the Riverlands with his 'inheritance'."

Tyrion stared at Emmon and then back at the girl. This Dacey Surestone had now stopped arguing with whatisname and was now staring at the fire with what seemed like unshed tears in her eyes. "A sad tale. And a convenient death. So what's she doing here?"

"Apparently she is desperate to get to Winterfell and talk to Lord Stark. But only her old nursemaid and one man at arms went with her from Surestone and they were both elderly. The one died before they reached here and then the other whilst she was here – and the road is no place for a sole woman. The bandits would take her and rape her at the very least. And… she is fast running out of coin. The landlord claims that medicine for her last servant was rare and costly and that she owes him for it."

Tyrion experienced a sinking sensation. "Let me guess – the medicine was not expensive, the man died of neglect and Lardarse there seeks to gain a hold on her and use her as a whore?"

A sad smile answered his question. He sat there for a long moment and resisted the all too urgent temptation to think about Tysha. No-one deserved that. No-one. Taking a deep breath he squinted at the woman as she stared at the fire. And then he made a decision. "Emmon?"

"My Lord?"

"Find out – quietly – how much she owes the landlord here. What she really owes, not the inflated figure that that greedy idiot will pull out of the air and then probably double when he hears that the coin is coming from me. Then pay it. Tell me if you need more coin. And then ask Lady Surestone if I can talk to her."

Emmon nodded and then looked to one side. "I can do the first easily my lord. I don't need to do the second part because she is making her way over to you." And then he stood and sidled off.

Much to his surprise Emmon was right. Lord Surestone's daughter was slowly making her way over to his table, with many a suspicious look at everyone and everything, including him. When she eventually reached his table she fixed him with an even more suspicious look, as if that was even possible. "You are Lord Lannister?"

"I am the son of Lord Lannister. Tyrion Lannister, at your service. And you are?"

"Dacey Surestone, daughter to… to the late Lord Surestone. I overheard you say that you are going to Winterfell?" There was something in her voice, something that combined suspicion and hope.

"I am indeed. I have been tasked by my father with going to Winterfell with certain… objects." Given by the number of faces that suddenly turned towards him that had been the wrong thing to say. "A number of books." Aha. The clarification led to those same faces losing interest and turning away. Except for one.

"You are taking books to Winterfell?" There was a look on the face of Dacey Surestone that was different from her previous facial expression. Cautious excitement. She looked about her carefully but not overtly and then she leant forwards a little. "I too am seeking to travel to Winterfell with a book."

And this pricked his interest enormously. He closed his book and then leant forwards a little himself. "What kind of book?"

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion again. "A book of history. It needs to be in the hands of Lord Stark. My distant cousin."

He looked at her. "We bear many books to Winterfell. If yours is about the Others then you are welcome to join us, my Lady."

Her gaze sharpened for a moment and then dropped to her lap. "I am no lady. I am just the only child of Lord Surestone."

"I have heard. My condolences on the death of your father."

She looked up again and something crackled deep within her eyes. Grief. And something more. Fury? Rage?

"I need to get to Winterfell – for many reasons." Then she drew herself up proudly. "I can pay my way to Winterfell once I get there. I have some coin here but-"

"But you have been fleeced by the landlord here. I heard that too."

The proud look weakened a little. "My old nursemaid and my old friend Will… they both died. And the landlord says I owe him coin and he hints and insinuates as to ways I can pay him back and-"

He forestalled the gathering angry tears in her eyes by raising his hand. "My lady – you can travel with us. I know that Lord Stark will pay me back. I have shall arrange matters, fear not. There is only one condition I would ask of you."

She stared him with a complicated array of emotions flashing over her face. Shock. Surprise. Happiness. Suspicion. The last one was the greatest. "What condition?"

"Why, I would like to read your book when we reach Winterfell."

She seemed to think hard – and then she nodded. At which point they both heard the sound of a fist hitting a jaw and breaking it in the process. Whereupon the inn descended rapidly into chaos.

Jorah

They had travelled a little further than he had hoped that day, Jorah mused as he looked into the crackling fire. He'd been lucky – there had been a party of merchants in Myr bound for Pentos that needed skilled warriors to guard it and he'd been able to join the party. Leera had indeed come with him and had revealed herself to be a surprising skilled cook, which had added to their popularity.

The surprise however had come when the leader of the guards, who had been off scouting ahead along the road, had rejoined them. The others had simply referred to him as 'Ironhand' and there had been something about the title that had tickled the back of his mind. Seeing the lanky man on the horse, with his reins partly held in an artificial right hand that was more of an iron hook than anything else had been a pleasant surprise. Loros himself.

The exiled Dothraki had greeted him with a smile and a left-handed wristclap, followed by a clap on the shoulder that made him hide a wince, but they had then fallen into a long conversation about what the road ahead was like and what the potential difficulties were. They hadn't had a chance to talk about anything else that day.

Until now. A shape loomed out of the darkness, revealing itself to be Loros with a bowl of stew in his good hand and of all things a spoon now in place of the metal claw on his right hand. He smiled and then sat next to Jorah, before eating about half of the stew in a few swallows and slurps. Yes, he was still the same as ever.

"It's good. Your woman's a good cook," Loros said through a full mouth. "You done that foolish ceremony with her yet?"

Foolish ceremony… ah. "We're not married."

An amused look, followed by more slurping as the rest of the stew vanished. "Ah, that's was good. You will be. That one's got her eye on you. I can tell. Better than that she-goat I last saw you with."

He thought back. Oh. Her. "She had her advantages. Found herself a rich merchant eventually."

"Don't they all?" Loros quipped and then belched. Placing the bowl down he peered at the spoon attachment and then unhooked it, before fumbling in a pouch to one side and then pulling out a metal hand, which fitted onto his stump with a click.

"Where did you get your new hands from?"

"Heh. I saved a party of merchants from some bandits. Fools hadn't scouted the road ahead properly, or given thought to the fact that not everyone uses the road. Bandits had cloth ears and never heard me and my men until we were on them, by which time it was all over. Leader of the merchants was most grateful – had a Maester in Myr fashion me a new hand with lots of attachments."

Jorah nodded and then a companionable silence fell as they both digested their meals and stared into the fire. After a while Loros stirred slightly. "You look strained my old friend," he said in Dothraki. Seeing Jorah's look of surprise he smiled grimly. "I know that I am too. And I would have no-one else listen to us."

"Exile… rests heavily on me at the moment," Jorah replied in the same language. "And I know not why, but I am pulled home. Pulled North."

Loros looked at him with a frown and then looked back at the fire for a long moment. "You too then? I am also pulled away. Pulled East. Pulled home."

Jorah winced. "We both face the same fate if we return home, old friend. In my case a headsman's axe. In your case…"

"In my case far worse than that if my dear brother gets hold of me. Fah. No-ones lives for ever my friend. And besides, the Sea is huge and I am but a speck in it."

Jorah raised his eyebrows and then looked pointedly at the metal hand. "A speck with one hand, my friend. You are a distinctive speck."

But Loros just smiled. "If I wish to ride by myself I can be a mote of dust on the wind. And besides – this pull is for a place further East than the Sea. Far further. The Grey Wastes call me. What calls you?"

Jorah looked back at the fire and then shivered a little. "The North. And the Wall. Not to serve there – not to take the Black. But to defend it. I feel it Loros. I feel that I have to be there. And I too cannot explain it."

The other man nodded. And then he rubbed at his nose. "We are not the only ones my friend. Why do you think that the Dothraki are moving Eastwards? As I said, I would be a mote of dust within a cloud of dust. And then there are the… others."

Jorah looked sharply at him. "Others?"

This got him a wry smile of apology. "Not the Others of which your legend speak! I mean… I met a man on the road three days ago. He said that the Company of the Rose are also heading to Pentos. They too are being called home."

Shock roiled through him. And then a deep and bitter envy. "The Company of the Rose? But they exiled themselves. Swore a great oath on it too."

"And now they go home. They'll be in Pentos by the time we reach there. Perhaps you should ask them what would be greater than such an oath?"

The fire drew his gaze again. And then the sight of Leera going into their tent caught his eye. He sat there for a moment and then sighed. He could sit there and stare at the fire and feel angry and envious and baffled or he could try to kindle a flame inside him for a bit. To try and fend off the emptiness for a bit longer. So he nodded at Loros – who grinned at him once he also saw Leera – and then stood up and strode over to the tent. Because a little something was better than nothing.