The north went on forever.
Tyrionxy Lannisterxyxy knew the maps as well as anyone, but a fortnight on the wild track that passed for the kingsroad up here had brought home the lesson that the map was one thing and the land quite another.
They had left Winterfellxy on the same day as the king, amidst all the commotion of the royal departure, riding out to the sound of men shouting and horses snorting, to the rattle of wagons and the groaning of the queen’s huge wheelhouse, as a light snow flurried about them. The kingsroad was just beyond the sprawl of castle and town. There the banners and the wagons and the columns of knights and freeriders turned south, taking the tumult with them, while Tyrionxy turned north with Benjenxy Starkxyxy and his nephew.
It had grown colder after that, and far more quiet.
West of the road were flint hills, grey and rugged, with tall watchtowers on their stony summits. To the east the land was lower, the ground flattening to a rolling plain that stretched away as far as the eye could see. Stone bridges spanned swift, narrow rivers, while small farms spread in rings around holdfasts walled in wood and stone. The road was well trafficked, and at night for their comfort there were rude inns to be found.
Three days ride from Winterfellxy, however, the farmland gave way to dense wood, and the kingsroad grew lonely. The flint hills rose higher and wilder with each passing mile, until by the fifth day they had turned into mountains, cold blue-grey giants with jagged promontories and snow on their shoulders. When the wind blew from the north, long plumes of ice crystals flew from the high peaks like banners.
With the mountains a wall to the west, the road veered north by northeast through the wood, a forest of oak and evergreen and black brier that seemed older and darker than any Tyrionxy had ever seen. “The wolfswood,” Benjenxy Starkxyxy called it, and indeed their nights came alive with the howls of distant packs, and some not so distant. Jon Snowxyxy’s albino direwolf pricked up his ears at the nightly howling, but never raised his own voice in reply. There was something very unsettling about that animal, Tyrionxy thought.
There were eight in the party by then, not counting the wolf. Tyrionxy traveled with two of his own men, as befit a Lannisterxy. Benjenxy Starkxyxy had only his bastard nephew and some fresh mounts for the Night’s Watchxy, but at the edge of the wolfswood they stayed a night behind the wooden walls of a forest holdfast, and there joined up with another of the black brothers, one Yorenxy. Yorenxy was stooped and sinister, his features hidden behind a beard as black as his clothing, but he seemed as tough as an old root and as hard as stone. With him were a pair of ragged peasant boys from the Fingersxy. “Rapers,” Yorenxy said with a cold look at his charges. Tyrionxy understood. Life on the Wallxy was said to be hard, but no doubt it was preferable to castration.
Five men, three boys, a direwolf, twenty horses, and a cage of ravens given over to Benjenxy Starkxyxy by Maesterxy Luwinxyxy. No doubt they made a curious fellowship for the kingsroad, or any road.
Tyrionxy noticed Jon Snowxyxy watching Yorenxy and his sullen companions, with an odd cast to his face that looked uncomfortably like dismay. Yorenxy had a twisted shoulder and a sour smell, his hair and beard were matted and greasy and full of lice, his clothing old, patched, and seldom washed. His two young recruits smelled even worse, and seemed as stupid as they were cruel.
No doubt the boy had made the mistake of thinking that the Night’s Watchxy was made up of men like his uncle. If so, Yorenxy and his companions were a rude awakening. Tyrionxy felt sorry for the boy. He had chosen a hard life … or perhaps he should say that a hard life had been chosen for him.
He had rather less sympathy for the uncle. Benjenxy Starkxyxy seemed to share his brother’s distaste for Lannistersxy, and he had not been pleased when Tyrionxy had told him of his intentions. “I warn you, Lannisterxy, you’ll find no inns at the Wallxy,” he had said, looking down on him.
“No doubt you’ll find some place to put me,” Tyrionxy had replied. “As you might have noticed, I’m small.”
One did not say no to the queen’s brother, of course, so that had settled the matter, but Starkxy had not been happy. “You will not like the ride, I promise you that,” he’d said curtly, and since the moment they set out, he had done all he could to live up to that promise.
By the end of the first week, Tyrionxy’s thighs were raw from hard riding, his legs were cramping badly, and he was chilled to the bone. He did not complain. He was damned if he would give Benjenxy Starkxyxy that satisfaction.
He took a small revenge in the matter of his riding fur, a tattered bearskin, old and musty-smelling. Starkxy had offered it to him in an excess of Night’s Watchxy gallantry, no doubt expecting him to graciously decline. Tyrionxy had accepted with a smile. He had brought his warmest clothing with him when they rode out of Winterfellxy, and soon discovered that it was nowhere near warm enough. It was cold up here, and growing colder. The nights were well below freezing now, and when the wind blew it was like a knife cutting right through his warmest woolens. By now Starkxy was no doubt regretting his chivalrous impulse. Perhaps he had learned a lesson. The Lannistersxy never declined, graciously or otherwise. The Lannistersxy took what was offered.
Farms and holdfasts grew scarcer and smaller as they pressed northward, ever deeper into the darkness of the wolfswood, until finally there were no more roofs to shelter under, and they were thrown back on their own resources.
Tyrionxy was never much use in making a camp or breaking one. Too small, too hobbled, too in-the-way. So while Starkxy and Yorenxy and the other men erected rude shelters, tended the horses, and built a fire, it became his custom to take his fur and a wineskin and go off by himself to read.
On the eighteenth night of their journey, the wine was a rare sweet amber from the Summerxy Islesxy that he had brought all the way north from Casterlyxy Rockxy, and the book a rumination on the history and properties of dragons. With Lordxy Eddardxy Starkxyxy’s permission, Tyrionxy had borrowed a few rare volumes from the Winterfellxy library and packed them for the ride north.
He found a comfortable spot just beyond the noise of the camp, beside a swift-running stream with waters clear and cold as ice. A grotesquely ancient oak provided shelter from the biting wind. Tyrionxy curled up in his fur with his back against the trunk, took a sip of the wine, and began to read about the properties of dragonbone. Dragonbonexy is black because of its high iron content, the book told him. It is strong as steel, yet lighter and far more flexible, and of course utterly impervious to fire. Dragonbonexy bows are greatly prized by the Dothrakixy, and small wonder. An archer so armed can outrange any wooden bow.
Tyrionxy had a morbid fascination with dragons. When he had first come to Kingxy’s Landingxy for his sister’s wedding to Robertxy Baratheonxyxy, he had made it a point to seek out the dragon skulls that had hung on the walls of Targaryenxy’s throne room. Kingxy Robertxyxy had replaced them with banners and tapestries, but Tyrionxy had persisted until he found the skulls in the dank cellar where they had been stored.
He had expected to find them impressive, perhaps even frightening. He had not thought to find them beautiful. Yet they were. As black as onyx, polished smooth, so the bone seemed to shimmer in the light of his torch. They liked the fire, he sensed. He’d thrust the torch into the mouth of one of the larger skulls and made the shadows leap and dance on the wall behind him. The teeth were long, curving knives of black diamond. The flame of the torch was nothing to them; they had bathed in the heat of far greater fires. When he had moved away, Tyrionxy could have sworn that the beast’s empty eye sockets had watched him go.
There were nineteen skulls. The oldest was more than three thousand years old; the youngest a mere century and a half. The most recent were also the smallest; a matched pair no bigger than mastiff’s skulls, and oddly misshapen, all that remained of the last two hatchlings born on Dragonstonexy. They were the last of the Targaryenxy dragons, perhaps the last dragons anywhere, and they had not lived very long.
From there the skulls ranged upward in size to the three great monsters of song and story, the dragons that Aegonxy Targaryenxyxy and his sisters had unleashed on the Seven Kingdomsxy of old. The singers had given them the names of gods: Balerionxy, Meraxesxy, Vhagharxy. Tyrionxy had stood between their gaping jaws, wordless and awed. You could have ridden a horse down Vhagharxy’s gullet, although you would not have ridden it out again. Meraxesxy was even bigger. And the greatest of them, Balerionxy, the Black Dread, could have swallowed an aurochs whole, or even one of the hairy mammoths said to roam the cold wastes beyond the Port of Ibbenxyxy.
Tyrionxy stood in that dank cellar for a long time, staring at Balerionxy’s huge, empty-eyed skull until his torch burned low, trying to grasp the size of the living animal, to imagine how it must have looked when it spread its great black wings and swept across the skies, breathing fire.
His own remote ancestor, Kingxy Loren of the Rock, had tried to stand against the fire when he joined with Kingxy Mern of the Reachxy to oppose the Targaryenxy conquest. That was close on three hundred years ago, when the Seven Kingdomsxy were kingdoms, and not mere provinces of a greater realm. Between them, the Two Kings had six hundred banners flying, five thousand mounted knights, and ten times as many freeriders and men-at-arms. Aegonxy Dragonlordxy had perhaps a fifth that number, the chroniclers said, and most of those were conscripts from the ranks of the last king he had slain, their loyalties uncertain.
The hosts met on the broad plains of the Reachxy, amidst golden fields of wheat ripe for harvest. When the Two Kings charged, the Targaryenxy army shivered and shattered and began to run. For a few moments, the chroniclers wrote, the conquest was at an end … but only for those few moments, before Aegonxy Targaryenxyxy and his sisters joined the battle.
It was the only time that Vhagharxy, Meraxesxy, and Balerionxy were all unleashed at once. The singers called it the Field of Firexy.
Near four thousand men had burned that day, among them Kingxy Mern of the Reachxy. Kingxy Loren had escaped, and lived long enough to surrender, pledge his fealty to the Targaryens, and beget a son, for which Tyrionxy was duly grateful.
“Why do you read so much?”
Tyrionxy looked up at the sound of the voice. Jon Snowxyxy was standing a few feet away, regarding him curiously. He closed the book on a finger and said, “Look at me and tell me what you see.”
The boy looked at him suspiciously. “Is this some kind of trick? I see you. Tyrionxy Lannisterxyxy.”
Tyrionxy sighed. “You are remarkably polite for a bastard, Snowxy. What you see is a dwarf. You are what, twelve?”
“Fourteen,” the boy said.
“Fourteen, and you’re taller than I will ever be. My legs are short and twisted, and I walk with difficulty. I require a special saddle to keep from falling off my horse. A saddle of my own design, you may be interested to know. It was either that or ride a pony. My arms are strong enough, but again, too short. I will never make a swordsman. Had I been born a peasant, they might have left me out to die, or sold me to some slaver’s grotesquerie. Alas, I was born a Lannisterxy of Casterlyxy Rockxy, and the grotesqueries are all the poorer. Things are expected of me. My father was the Handxy of the Kingxyxy for twenty years. My brother later killed that very same king, as it turns out, but life is full of these little ironies. My sister married the new king and my repulsive nephew will be king after him. I must do my part for the honor of my House, wouldn’t you agree? Yet how? Well, my legs may be too small for my body, but my head is too large, although I prefer to think it is just large enough for my mind. I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, Kingxy Robertxyxy has his warhammer, and I have my mind … and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.” Tyrionxy tapped the leather cover of the book. “That’s why I read so much, Jon Snowxyxy.”
The boy absorbed that all in silence. He had the Starkxy face if not the name: long, solemn, guarded, a face that gave nothing away. Whoever his mother had been, she had left little of herself in her son. “What are you reading about?” he asked.
“Dragons,” Tyrionxy told him.
“What good is that? There are no more dragons,” the boy said with the easy certainty of youth.
“So they say,” Tyrionxy replied. “Sad, isn’t it? When I was your age, I used to dream of having a dragon of my own.”
“You did?” the boy said suspiciously. Perhaps he thought Tyrionxy was making fun of him.
“Oh, yes. Even a stunted, twisted, ugly little boy can look down over the world when he’s seated on a dragon’s back.” Tyrionxy pushed the bearskin aside and climbed to his feet. “I used to start fires in the bowels of Casterlyxy Rockxy and stare at the flames for hours, pretending they were dragonfire. Sometimes I’d imagine my father burning. At other times, my sister.” Jon Snowxyxy was staring at him, a look equal parts horror and fascination. Tyrionxy guffawed. “Don’t look at me that way, bastard. I know your secret. You’ve dreamt the same kind of dreams.”
“No,” Jon Snowxyxy said, horrified. “I wouldn’t …”
“No? Never?” Tyrionxy raised an eyebrow. “Well, no doubt the Starks have been terribly good to you. I’m certain Ladyxy Starkxy treats you as if you were one of her own. And your brother Robbxy, he’s always been kind, and why not? He gets Winterfellxy and you get the Wallxy. And your father … he must have good reasons for packing you off to the Night’s Watchxy …”
“Stop it,” Jon Snowxyxy said, his face dark with anger. “The Night’s Watchxy is a noble calling!”
Tyrionxy laughed. “You’re too smart to believe that. The Night’s Watchxy is a midden heap for all the misfits of the realm. I’ve seen you looking at Yorenxy and his boys. Those are your new brothers, Jon Snowxyxy, how do you like them? Sullen peasants, debtors, poachers, rapers, thieves, and bastards like you all wind up on the Wallxy, watching for grumkins and snarks and all the other monsters your wet nurse warned you about. The good part is there are no grumkins or snarks, so it’s scarcely dangerous work. The bad part is you freeze your balls off, but since you’re not allowed to breed anyway, I don’t suppose that matters.”
“Stop it!” the boy screamed. He took a step forward, his hands coiling into fists, close to tears.
Suddenly, absurdly, Tyrionxy felt guilty. He took a step forward, intending to give the boy a reassuring pat on the shoulder or mutter some word of apology.
He never saw the wolf, where it was or how it came at him. One moment he was walking toward Snowxy and the next he was flat on his back on the hard rocky ground, the book spinning away from him as he fell, the breath going out of him at the sudden impact, his mouth full of dirt and blood and rotting leaves. As he tried to get up, his back spasmed painfully. He must have wrenched it in the fall. He ground his teeth in frustration, grabbed a root, and pulled himself back to a sitting position. “Help me,” he said to the boy, reaching up a hand.
And suddenly the wolf was between them. He did not growl. The damned thing never made a sound. He only looked at him with those bright red eyes, and showed him his teeth, and that was more than enough. Tyrionxy sagged back to the ground with a grunt. “Don’t help me, then. I’ll sit right here until you leave.”
Jon Snowxyxy stroked Ghostxy’s thick white fur, smiling now. “Ask me nicely.”
Tyrionxy Lannisterxyxy felt the anger coiling inside him, and crushed it out with a will. It was not the first time in his life he had been humiliated, and it would not be the last. Perhaps he even deserved this. “I should be very grateful for your kind assistance, Jon,” he said mildly.
“Down, Ghostxy,” the boy said. The direwolf sat on his haunches. Those red eyes never left Tyrionxy. Jon came around behind him, slid his hands under his arms, and lifted him easily to his feet. Then he picked up the book and handed it back.
“Why did he attack me?” Tyrionxy asked with a sidelong glance at the direwolf. He wiped blood and dirt from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Maybe he thought you were a grumkin.”
Tyrionxy glanced at him sharply. Then he laughed, a raw snort of amusement that came bursting out through his nose entirely without his permission. “Oh, gods,” he said, choking on his laughter and shaking his head, “I suppose I do rather look like a grumkin. What does he do to snarks?”
“You don’t want to know.” Jon picked up the wineskin and handed it to Tyrionxy.
Tyrionxy pulled out the stopper, tilted his head, and squeezed a long stream into his mouth. The wine was cool fire as it trickled down his throat and warmed his belly. He held out the skin to Jon Snowxyxy. “Want some?”
The boy took the skin and tried a cautious swallow. “It’s true, isn’t it?” he said when he was done. “What you said about the Night’s Watchxy.”
Tyrionxy nodded.
Jon Snowxyxy set his mouth in a grim line. “If that’s what it is, that’s what it is.”
Tyrionxy grinned at him. “That’s good, bastard. Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it.”
“Most men,” the boy said. “But not you.”
“No,” Tyrionxy admitted, “not me. I seldom even dream of dragons anymore. There are no dragons.” He scooped up the fallen bearskin. “Come, we had better return to camp before your uncle calls the banners.”
The walk was short, but the ground was rough underfoot and his legs were cramping badly by the time they got back. Jon Snowxyxy offered a hand to help him over a thick tangle of roots, but Tyrionxy shook him off. He would make his own way, as he had all his life. Still, the camp was a welcome sight. The shelters had been thrown up against the tumbledown wall of a long-abandoned holdfast, a shield against the wind. The horses had been fed and a fire had been laid. Yorenxy sat on a stone, skinning a squirrel. The savory smell of stew filled Tyrionxy’s nostrils. He dragged himself over to where his man Morrecxy was tending the stewpot. Wordlessly, Morrecxy handed him the ladle. Tyrionxy tasted and handed it back. “More pepper,” he said.
Benjenxy Starkxyxy emerged from the shelter he shared with his nephew. “There you are. Jon, damn it, don’t go off like that by yourself. I thought the Othersxy had gotten you.”
“It was the grumkins,” Tyrionxy told him, laughing. Jon Snowxyxy smiled. Starkxy shot a baffled look at Yorenxy. The old man grunted, shrugged, and went back to his bloody work.
The squirrel gave some body to the stew, and they ate it with black bread and hard cheese that night around their fire. Tyrionxy shared around his skin of wine until even Yorenxy grew mellow. One by one the company drifted off to their shelters and to sleep, all but Jon Snowxyxy, who had drawn the night’s first watch.
Tyrionxy was the last to retire, as always. As he stepped into the shelter his men had built for him, he paused and looked back at Jon Snowxyxy. The boy stood near the fire, his face still and hard, looking deep into the flames.