A Game of Thrones Chapter Thirteen

TyrionThe north went on forever.Tyrion Lannister knew the maps as well as any star, exclusively 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 Winterfell on the same day as the king, amidst all the commotion of the royal departure, riding out(p) to the break down of men shouting and horses snorting, to the rattle of wagons and the groaning of the queens huge wheelhouse, as a light snow flurried roughly 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 Tyrion turned north with Benjen serious and his nephew.It had grown c honest-to-goder after that, and distant more quiet.West of the road were boulde reddened hills, grey and rugged, with tall watchtowers on their stony summits. To the east the land was lower, the ground flatt ening to a rolling plain that stretched remote as far as the eye could see. Stone bridges spanned swift, narrow rivers, while small farms spread in rings around holdfasts beleaguered in woodwind instrument and stone. The road was well trafficked, and at night for their comfort there were vulgar inns to be found.Three days ride from Winterfell, 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, presbyopic plumes of ice crystals flew from the high peaks worry 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 blackened brier that seemed older and darker than any Tyrion had ever seen. The wolfswood, Benjen Stark called it, and indeed their nights c ame alive with the howls of distant packs, and some not so distant. Jon Snows albino direwolf pricked up his ears at the nightly howling, merely never raised his own voice in reply. There was something very un practisetling about that animal, Tyrion thought.There were eight in the party by then, not run the wolf. Tyrion traveled with devil of his own men, as befit a Lannister. Benjen Stark had lonesome(prenominal) his bastard nephew and some fresh mounts for the Nights Watch, 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 Yoren. Yoren 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 male childs from the Fingers. Rapers, Yoren said with a cold matter at his charges. Tyrion understood. Life on the Wall was said to be hard, but no doub t it was preferable to castration.Five men, three boys, a direwolf, twenty horses, and a cage of ravens given over to Benjen Stark by Maester Luwin. No doubt they do a curious fellowship for the kingsroad, or any road.Tyrion noticed Jon Snow watching Yoren and his sullen companions, with an odd cast to his face that looked uncomfortably like dismay. Yoren had a twisted shoulder and a sour smell, his hair and beard were matted and greasy and full of lice, his clothing old, blameched, 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 implying that the Nights Watch was made up of men like his uncle. If so, Yoren and his companions were a rude awakening. Tyrion 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. Benjen Stark seemed to sh are his brothers distaste for Lannisters, a nd he had not been pleased when Tyrion had told him of his intentions. I warn you, Lannister, youll find no inns at the Wall, he had said, looking down on him.No doubt youll find some place to put me, Tyrion had replied. As you might have noticed, Im small. i did not say no to the queens brother, of course, so that had settled the matter, but Stark had not been happy. You will not like the ride, I promise you that, hed 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, Tyrions 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 Benjen Stark that satisfaction.He took a small revenge in the matter of his riding fur, a tattered bearskin, old and mustinessy-smelling. Stark had collide withered it to him in an excess of Nights Watch gallantry, no doubt expecting him to graciously decline. Tyrion had accepted with a smile. He had brought his warmest clothing with him when they rode out of Winterfell, and soon discovered that it was nowhere some 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 Stark was no doubt regretting his chivalrous impulse. Perhaps he had learned a lesson. The Lannisters never declined, graciously or otherwise. The Lannisters took what was offered.Farms and holdfasts grew scarcer and smaller as they touch 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.Tyrion was never much use in making a camp or breaking one. Too small, too hobbled, too in-the-way. So while Stark and Yoren and the other men erected rude shelters, tended the horses, and make a fire, it became his custom to take his fur and a wineskin and go off by h imself to read.On the eighteenth night of their journey, the wine was a rarefied new amber from the Summer Isles that he had brought all the way north from Casterly Rock, and the book a rumination on the history and properties of dragons. With Lord Eddard Starks permission, Tyrion had borrowed a few rare volumes from the Winterfell 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 sporting and cold as ice. A grotesquely ancient oak provided shelter from the biting wind. Tyrion 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. Dragonbone 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 proof(predicate) to fire. Dragonbone bows are largely prized by the Dothraki, and small wonder. An archer so armed can outrange any wooden bow.Tyrion had a morbid fascination with dragons. When he had first come to great powers Landing for his sisters wedding to Robert Baratheon, he had made it a point to seek out the dragon skulls that had hung on the walls of Targaryens throne room. King Robert had replaced them with banners and tapestries, but Tyrion had persisted until he found the skulls in the dank wine cellar where they had been stored.He had expected to find them impressive, perhaps even frightening. He had not thought to find them beautiful. to date 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. Hed 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 genus Oestrus of far greater fires. When he had moved away, Tyrion could ha ve sworn that the beasts 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 mastiffs skulls, and oddly misshapen, all that remained of the last two hatchlings born on Dragonstone. They were the last of the Targaryen 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 Aegon Targaryen and his sisters had unleashed on the Seven Kingdoms of old. The singers had given them the names of gods Balerion, Meraxes, Vhaghar. Tyrion had stood between their gaping jaws, wordless and awed. You could have ridden a horse down Vhaghars gullet, although you would not have ridden it out again. Meraxes was even bigger. And the greatest of them, Balerion, 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 Ibben.Tyrion stood in that dank cellar for a long time, staring at Balerions 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, leading fire.His own remote ancestor, King Loren of the Rock, had tried to stand against the fire when he joined with King Mern of the mountain chain to oppose the Targaryen conquest. That was close on three coke years ago, when the Seven Kingdoms 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. Aegon Dragonlord 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 h osts met on the broad plains of the Reach, amidst golden fields of wheat ripe for harvest. When the Two Kings charged, the Targaryen 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, earlier Aegon Targaryen and his sisters joined the battle.It was the only time that Vhaghar, Meraxes, and Balerion were all unleashed at once. The singers called it the Field of Fire.Near four thousand men had burned that day, among them King Mern of the Reach. King Loren had escaped, and lived long enough to surrender, pledge his fealty to the Targaryens, and be defecate a son, for which Tyrion was duly grateful.why do you read so much?Tyrion looked up at the sound of the voice. Jon Snow 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. Tyrion La nnister.Tyrion sighed. You are remarkably polite for a bastard, Snow. What you see is a dwarf. You are what, twelve?Fourteen, the boy said.Fourteen, and youre 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 slavers grotesquerie. Alas, I was born a Lannister of Casterly Rock, and the grotesqueries are all the poorer. Things are expected of me. My father was the Hand of the King for twenty years. My brother later killed that very same king, as it turns out, but life is full of these superficial 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, wouldnt y ou 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 intellect. I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, King Robert 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. Tyrion tapped the leather cover of the book. Thats why I read so much, Jon Snow.The boy absorbed that all in silence. He had the Stark 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, Tyrion told him.What good is that? There are no more dragons, the boy said with the easy certainty of youth.So they say, Tyrion replied. Sad, isnt it? When I was your age, used to dream of having a dragon of my own.You did? the boy said suspiciously. Perhaps he tho ught Tyrion was making fun of him.Oh, yes. Even a stunted, twisted, flagitious little boy can look down over the world when hes seated on a dragons back. Tyrion pushed the bearskin aside and climbed to his feet. I used to erupt fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and stare at the flames for hours, pretending they were dragonfire. Sometimes Id imagine my father burning. At other times, my sister. Jon Snow was staring at him, a look equal parts horror and fascination. Tyrion guffawed. Dont look at me that way, bastard. I know your secret. Youve dreamt the same kind of dreams.No, Jon Snow said, horrified. I wouldnt . . . No? Never? Tyrion raised an eyebrow. Well, no doubt the Starks have been terribly good to you. Im certain Lady Stark treats you as if you were one of her own. And your brother Robb, hes always been kind, and why not? He gets Winterfell and you get the Wall. And your father . . . he must have good reasons for packing you off to the Nights Watch . . . Stop it, Jon Sno w said, his face dark with anger. The Nights Watch is a master callingTyrion laughed. Youre too smart to believe that. The Nights Watch is a midden heap for all the misfits of the realm. Ive seen you looking at Yoren and his boys. Those are your new brothers, Jon Snow, how do you like them? Sullen peasants, debtors, poachers, rapers, thieves, and bastards like you all wind up on the Wall, 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 its scarcely dangerous work. The bad part is you freeze your balls off, but since youre not allowed to breed anyway, I dont suppose that matters.Stop it the boy screamed. He took a step forward, his hands coiling into fists, close to tears.Suddenly, absurdly, Tyrion 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 mo ment he was walk toward Snow 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, reach 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. Tyrion sagged back to the ground with a grunt. Dont help me, then. Ill sit right here until you leave.Jon Snow stroked Ghosts densely white fur, smiling now. invite me nicely.Tyrion Lannister 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, Ghost, the boy said. The direwolf sat on his haunches. Those red eyes never left Tyrion. 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? Tyrion 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.Tyrion 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 laugh and shaking his head, I suppose I do rather look like a grumkin. What does he do to snarks?You dont want to know. Jon picked up the wineskin and handed it to Tyrion.Tyrion 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 Snow. emergency some?The boy took the skin and tried a cautious swallow. Its true, isnt it? he said when he was done. What you said about the Nights Watch.Tyrion nodded.Jon Snow set his mouth in a grim line. If thats what it is, thats what it is.Tyrion grinned at him. Thats good, bastard. Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it.Most men, the boy said. But not you.No, Tyrion 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 Snow offered a hand to help him over a thick tangle of roots, but Tyrion 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 u p 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. Yoren sat on a stone, skinning a squirrel. The savory smell of stew filled Tyrions nostrils. He dragged himself over to where his man Morrec was tending the stewpot. Wordlessly, Morrec handed him the ladle. Tyrion tasted and handed it back. More pepper, he said.Benjen Stark emerged from the shelter he shared with his nephew. There you are. Jon, damn it, dont go off like that by yourself. I thought the Others had gotten you.It was the grumkins, Tyrion told him, laughing. Jon Snow smiled. Stark shot a baffled look at Yoren. The old man grunted, shrugged, and went back to his all-fired work.The squirrel gave some body to the stew, and they ate it with black bread and hard cheese that night around their fire. Tyrion shared around his skin of wine until even Yoren grew mellow. One by one the company drifted off to their shelters and to sleep, all but J on Snow, who had drawn the nights first watch.Tyrion was the last to retire, as always. As he stepped into the shelter his men had create for him, he paused and looked back at Jon Snow. The boy stood near the fire, his face still and hard, looking deep into the flames.Tyrion Lannister smiled sadly and went to bed.