Chapter 9: Tyrion
Tyrion Lannister awoke to the soft light filtering through the curtains of the modest room he had rented for the night. The warmth of the bed enveloped him, and he turned slightly to see Ros still asleep beside him. Her auburn hair spilled across the pillow, framing her delicate features. Tyrion smiled to himself, recalling the events of the previous evening—the laughter, the wine, and their passionate embrace that had left him feeling more alive than he had in a long time.
As he swung his legs over the side of the bed and began dressing, Ros stirred awake. "Are you leaving so soon?" she asked sleepily, her voice thick with slumber.
Tyrion paused, glancing back at her with a smirk. "I have business to attend to in Winterfell," he replied, fastening his belt. "But last night was… unforgettable."
Ros smiled coyly, propping herself up on one elbow. "You were amazing with your fingers," she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
He chuckled softly at her compliment before finishing his attire. With a final glance at Ros—who was now watching him intently—he slipped out of the room and into the bustling streets of Winterfell.
The crisp morning air invigorated him as he made his way toward a nearby tavern. He felt a familiar pull towards drink and camaraderie; it was a ritual that often soothed his mind amidst political turmoil and familial strife. Upon entering the tavern, Tyrion scanned the room for an empty seat but quickly found himself distracted by an imposing figure that had just stepped inside.
Fenris—a name that echoed through whispers in taverns and halls alike—had arrived. The wild child from beyond the Wall commanded attention with his rugged appearance and fierce demeanor. His long hair hung loosely around broad shoulders adorned with furs, and his piercing gaze swept across those present as if assessing potential threats or allies.
Tyrion's curiosity piqued; he had heard tales of Fenris—the ward of House Stark who had been raised among dire wolves. With a deep breath to steady himself against Fenris's intimidating presence, Tyrion approached him.
"Fenris," Tyrion greeted warmly, extending a hand in friendship despite their stark differences in stature and upbringing.
Fenris regarded him for a moment before accepting his handshake with surprising gentleness for someone so formidable. "And you are Tyrion Lannister," he replied evenly, though there was an unmistakable hint of intrigue in his tone.
"I've heard much about you," Tyrion continued, keenly aware that this was likely one of their first encounters between such disparate lives—one noble yet often scorned by society due to his stature; another wild yet respected for his strength and loyalty.
"Is it true you lived amongst dire wolves?" Tyrion asked playfully but sincerely curious about Fenris's past.
A flicker of nostalgia crossed Fenris's face as he nodded slowly. "I did," he said quietly. "Until Lord Stark took me under his wing." His voice held a mixture of pride and reverence when speaking about Eddard Stark—a man known for honor above all else.
"What was it like?" Tyrion pressed further, intrigued by this glimpse into life beyond courtly intrigue and scheming politics.
"It was… different," Fenris admitted after a moment's thought. "The wolves taught me survival; they showed me loyalty without question." He paused before continuing thoughtfully, "Lord Stark taught me what it meant to be human—to protect those who cannot protect themselves."
Tyrion nodded appreciatively at Fenris's words; they resonated deeply within him as someone who often felt like an outsider even among his own family members.
"Do you miss them?" Tyrion asked gently.
Fenris looked away momentarily as if lost in memories before returning his gaze to meet Tyrion's eyes directly. "Sometimes," he confessed softly but firmly. "But I have my own path now."
"Tell me, Tyrion," Fenris began, his voice low but steady. "Are you a Maester?"
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Why would you ask me that?" he replied, his tone laced with curiosity and amusement.
Fenris leaned back slightly, observing the dwarf closely. "You speak with a certain authority," Fenris noted. "It's reminiscent of Maester Luwin's teachings. You possess a keen intellect, more exceptionally since I'm a dwarf."
Tyrion chuckled softly at this compliment but sensed an underlying seriousness in Fenris's words. "And what do you mean by 'more exceptionally since I'm a dwarf'?" he inquired, genuinely intrigued.
Fenris paused for a moment before responding. "I recently read 'The Testimony of Mushroom'," he said, watching Tyrion's reaction closely.
Tyrion's eyes widened slightly. "You've read that? Most would dismiss it as mere gossip."
"It is more than gossip," Fenris insisted passionately. "Mushroom was cunning and intelligent—a formidable survivor amidst the time of Viserys I Targaryen, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Aegon II Targaryen, Aegon III Targaryen." He leaned forward, animated by his thoughts. "He navigated plots and murders with an astuteness that belied his position as a fool."
Tyrion nodded slowly, appreciating Fenris's perspective. He had always found value in stories that revealed deeper truths about human nature—especially those told by someone like Mushroom who had lived through such tumultuous times during Rhaenyra Targaryen's claim to the throne against Aegon II Targaryen.
"Mushroom's survival was not merely luck," Fenris continued. "He understood people—he knew how to play their weaknesses against them while also leveraging his own perceived insignificance."
Tyrion leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. "So you're saying that despite their short height," he mused aloud, "dwarves are always tall in intelligence?"
"Exactly," Fenris affirmed with conviction. "The book taught me that intelligence is not measured by physical stature but rather by one's ability to navigate life's complexities. Never underestimated a dwarf."
Tyrion smiled knowingly; he had faced similar prejudices throughout his life as well—a dwarf among giants both physically and politically.
Tyrion remarked, "You know, Fenris, with your sharp mind and quick wit, you would make a great Maester."
Fenris chuckled softly at this compliment but then grew contemplative. "I did think so once," he replied, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "Two years ago, I asked Maester Luwin if I could become a Maester like him."
Tyrion leaned in closer, intrigued by Fenris's story. "And what happened?" he prompted.
With a sigh, Fenris recounted how Maester Luwin had taken him under his wing and escorted him to Oldtown to study at the Citadel. The journey had been filled with hope and ambition as Fenris dreamed of becoming a learned man among scholars. However, things took a turn when he encountered a Grand Maester during his studies.
"There was an incident," Fenris said hesitantly. "The Grand Maester… well, let's just say he underestimated me." His expression darkened as he recalled the confrontation that escalated into chaos. In a moment of anger and frustration over being belittled for his background—his wild nature—the young man had bitten the Grand Maester on the hand in retaliation.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow in surprise but quickly masked it with amusement. "That sounds rather… unorthodox for aspiring scholars."
Fenris nodded solemnly. "They banished me from the Citadel after that incident," he continued bitterly. "They said I was too much of a wild animal to be a Maester." The sadness in his voice resonated deeply within Tyrion; it was evident that this rejection weighed heavily on him.
Seeing Fenris's downcast demeanor stirred something within Tyrion—a desire to uplift this young man who reminded him so much of himself in his youth: clever yet misunderstood. He recalled advice he had given Jon Snow only last night during their conversation about identity and self-worth.
"Listen closely," Tyrion said earnestly, leaning forward as if sharing a secret meant only for Fenris's ears. "Never forget who and what you are so that no one can use it against you. Look at me; all within society judges me for being a dwarf, but I never let it affect me. I even advise your friend, Jon Snow to never let the world attack his status as a bastard, use it as a badge of honor."
Fenris absorbed this wisdom intently; it seemed to ignite something within him—a flicker of hope amidst despair. He looked up at Tyrion with gratitude shining in his eyes. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "That means more than you know."
Feeling buoyed by their exchange and wanting to celebrate this newfound camaraderie, Fenris offered to buy Tyrion a drink. They clinked their goblets together—a small gesture signifying friendship—and shared stories late into the night about dreams unfulfilled and aspirations yet to be realized.
0o0o0
As the sun dipped above the horizon, casting a golden hue over the snow-capped peaks surrounding Winterfell, Tyrion Lannister and Fenris made their way back to the ancestral home of House Stark. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of pine and the faintest hint of smoke from the hearths within the castle walls. Their laughter echoed in the stillness of the evening, a stark contrast to the somber atmosphere that often enveloped those who tread upon Stark lands.
Tyrion, ever observant and keenly aware of his surroundings, stole glances at Fenris as they walked side by side. The young man was a formidable figure—tall and muscular, with an intensity that radiated from him like heat from a forge. His features were sharp, his jaw set in a way that suggested he was no stranger to conflict. Yet, beneath that fierce exterior lay a complexity that intrigued Tyrion.
The two had spent half an hour, sharing drinks and stories. Tyrion had always found solace in alcohol; it loosened tongues and revealed truths hidden beneath layers of bravado. As they drank, he had come to appreciate Fenris not just as a warrior but as a young man with high intelligence, shaped by his experiences, and destined for greatness, good or bad.
From Tyrion's perspective, he had developed a perfect understanding of Fenris' character during their brief encounter. He recognized that Fenris possessed an innate fierceness that could easily be mistaken for brutishness. It was evident to Tyrion that this ferocity stemmed from loyalty—a fierce devotion to House Stark and its members. He imagined that any slight against them would ignite Fenris' temper like kindling catching fire.
The two of them find themselves arriving in the training yard of Winterfell, to witness an impromptu sparring match between Bran Stark and Prince Tommen Baratheon. The atmosphere is charged with youthful energy as the two boys clash with wooden swords under the watchful eye of Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms. The sound of wood striking wood echoes through the yard, drawing a small crowd of spectators that includes Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy, and Sandor Clegane.
Ser Rodrik Cassel stood nearby, arms crossed and eyes sharp as he oversaw the training session. His presence commanded respect; he was not just any master-at-arms but one who had trained many of Winterfell's finest fighters. As Bran helped Tommen back to his feet, Ser Rodrik called out for Robb Stark and Joffrey Baratheon to step forward for their bout.
Joffrey sauntered into the yard with an air of superiority that was all too familiar to those present. He looked down at Robb as if assessing whether it was worth his time to engage in such a trivial contest with practice swords. "I would rather use real swords," Joffrey declared haughtily, his voice dripping with disdain.
Robb's expression hardened at Joffrey's condescension. "If you're afraid to fight me fairly," he shot back defiantly, "then perhaps you should stay on your throne." The tension between them crackled like lightning in the summer sky.
Fenris turned to Tyrion and asked quietly, "Do royal princes always act like this?"
Tyrion smirked slightly before responding with sarcasm laced through his words. "Oh yes, it is part of their royal training—how to be insufferable while wielding nothing more than a wooden sword." His tone conveyed both amusement and disdain for his nephew Joffrey's arrogance.
Ser Rodrik interjected firmly before things could escalate further. "I will only allow blunted tourney swords for this bout," he stated decisively. There was no room for argument; safety was paramount even among noble youths.
Sandor Clegane stepped forward then—a hulking figure whose scars told tales of violence and survival. He grunted dismissively at Joffrey's earlier bravado about using real swords. "I killed a man with a real sword when I was twelve," he remarked bluntly, his voice low but filled with menace.
With a smirk playing on his lips, Joffrey turned his attention to Robb Stark, who stood defiantly across from him. "You know, Robb," he began, his voice dripping with disdain, "it must be hard for you to keep up with your father's legacy when you're so busy playing at being a man." Each word was carefully chosen to provoke and belittle; it was a game for Joffrey, one he relished deeply. His cutting remarks were designed not only to undermine Robb's authority but also to entertain those who watched—courtiers and nobles alike.
Robb's jaw clenched as anger flared within him. He had come to negotiate terms for peace, but Joffrey seemed intent on turning this meeting into a spectacle of mockery. With every taunt that slipped from Joffrey's lips, Robb felt the weight of his family's honor pressing down upon him. Yet he held firm; he would not give Joffrey the satisfaction of seeing him lose control.
Feigning boredom now, Joffrey yawned exaggeratedly before announcing that he was ready to leave with Tommen at his side. "This is beneath me," he declared loudly enough for all present to hear. It was clear that he sought an exit from what he deemed an unworthy engagement—a display meant not just for Robb but also for those watching him closely. As he turned away with Tommen trailing behind like a shadow, whispers filled the training yard about the young prince's arrogance.
Fenris remarked dryly to Tyrion, "Joffrey makes a better jester than a prince."
Unbeknownst to them both, Joffrey had overheard this comment and felt the sting of offense prick at his pride. With narrowed eyes and fists clenched at his sides, he strode over to confront Fenris directly. "What did you say?" he demanded sharply.
Tyrion stepped in quickly, sensing the brewing storm. "Fenris merely meant that your actions speak volumes about your character," Tyrion lied smoothly while casting an amused glance at Fenris as if they shared an inside joke.
Tyrion noticed his nephew's reaction by looking at Fenris and suspected he knew who Fenris was. And he has a bad feeling that his foolish nephew is going to try to do something stupid.
"Is it true what they say?" Joffrey called out, his voice dripping with condescension. "Do you really live among those beasts? Are you a man or just some wild animal?"
Fenris straightened up, pride swelling within him at the mention of his connection to the dire wolves. "I am both man and beast," he replied firmly, though confusion flickered in his eyes at Joffrey's tone.
Joffrey continued to prod; each question more inappropriate than the last. "What do you do? Howling at night? Do they even let you eat with them?" His laughter echoed through the courtyard.
The atmosphere shifted as those who knew Fenris personally, Robb and Ser Rodick felt Fenris's anger rise within him. They were ready to step in when without warning—Tyrion Lannister raised his hand and slapped Joffrey across the face. The sound rang out like thunder in the stillness of Winterfell. Gasps erupted from those present; shock painted their faces as they witnessed such an act against royalty.
"You will not speak to him that way," Tyrion declared fiercely, glaring down at his nephew. "You may be a prince, but that does not give you license to insult those who have earned their place here."
Joffrey's expression morphed from surprise to fury as he clutched his cheek where Tyrion had struck him. With an angry huff, he turned on his heel and stormed away, leaving behind a stunned silence.
The Hound stepped forward then, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he regarded Tyrion with a mixture of admiration and caution. "You know he'll remember that slap," Sandor Clegane warned gruffly.
"I hope he does," Tyrion replied coolly. "And you should remind him if he forgets." The Hound nodded slightly before departing after Joffrey, leaving Fenris standing amidst a whirlwind of emotions.
Fenris turned to Tyrion, shaking his head in disbelief. "You didn't have to do that," he said earnestly. "I would have handled Joffrey myself."
Ser Rodrik Cassel interjected quickly before Fenris could continue. "No you won't. You must understand Fenris—harming a prince is no small matter," he cautioned gravely. "It would mean death for you."
Robb Stark chimed in as well, concern etched on his youthful features. "Rodrik is right; we cannot afford to lose you over something so foolish."
Tyrion sighed deeply before addressing them all again. "I apologize for my nephew's rudeness," he said sincerely. "He has never understood how to behave properly among those who deserve respect."