Tyrion VIII

The brothers Lannister embraced. "Welcome back, little brother!"

Jaime looked older to Tyrion's eyes, more serious. He wore the white armor well. "I understand our Joff won his battle."

His brother laughed, though it seemed a little forced. "Aye. We had a stroke of luck with Ser Jon and the dragon. The dumb bitch marched her host half to death, and we cut them to pieces. I imagine we'll be finding random foreign corpses in the snow for years."

That brought Tyrion up short. "Years more of winter, do you think? I was a prisoner in Storm's End ere the snows started, and it seems to show no signs of slowing down."

His brother did not answer speedily. That was the strangest thing; Jaime seemed to have gained the ability to think before he spoke.

"Mayhaps. That is what this court session is all about. The king is going to interrogate the prisoner from the Iron Throne. We shall see what we shall see."

Tyrion chewed on that. He'd had a few conversations with Lady Mormont, er, Melisandre of Asshai, at dinner. Mostly, she filled the Dragon Queen's head with nonsense, eastern mysticism that foretold her triumph. A charlatan and a flatterer, he thought, yet there was a certain grandeur about her, a gravity that couldn't be faked. Having some knowledge of mummers, Tyrion flattered himself that he could tell the difference.

"Ah, and congratulations, brother. It seems you're to be the new lord of Harlaw. Father has finally pacified those rebels on the Iron Islands," Jaime said.

He supposed he ought to be grateful for even that much consideration. "Yes. His Grace wants a great deal of iron, it seems. Mayhaps it will make a rich holding, with new management." Still, Tyrion could not help interpreting his father's message as saying, "You shall have this, and not the Rock."

"In his own way, our nephew is the greediest of kings, little brother. He is open-handed with lands, titles, and honors, but he will have what he wants of you, like as not. I swear, he's been talking about that bloody bridge for five years, and now that Jon has a dragon, he thinks it can be had!"

"Yes, he has set me to studying Valyrian sorcery, and why not? Plainly, the dragons have returned, and the wolves from his wife's family are hardly natural. Who knows what is truly possible in this age?"

Jaime nodded silently. "Court will begin soon. I must sit with the rest of the council. You can remain here in the gallery." His brother smiled a smile that reminded Tyrion of the old, cavalier Jaime. "Enjoy the show."

A herald blew a trumpet, and the king strode in under a heavy fur cloak, looking as grim and severe as Tyrion had ever seen. Had there been bad news?

At his side was Queen Sansa, who was a vision of beauty, red, fierce, and positively glowing. Her hand rested protectively over a slight bump on her belly.

The heir, he realized. They'd been busy while he was locked up, it seemed.

There was frozen-faced Eddard Stark, the Hand, Littlefinger, who wasn't looking quite so satisfied as usual, Lord Brine, a commoner who looked almost as out of place as his forebear, the eunuch, Varys. Arrogant Lord Velaryon rounded out the bunch, and the wolves, mustn't forget them. All four perched before the Iron Throne, eyes alight with intelligence.

Unnatural indeed. They were as large as an aurochs, with jaws like to swallow him whole, if they had the mind to. The prisoner would have to be brave indeed to play the king false with such beasts ready to tear her apart.

With long-legged strides, Joffrey mounted the steps to the Iron Throne two at a time and sat down lightly. He leaned forward and bellowed, "Send her in!"

Melisandre of Asshai had been stripped of her finery, clad only in a woolen shift, but they hadn't taken the ruby at her throat, Tyrion noticed. Mayhaps a placating gesture? Often the red woman worried at the jewel at table, he remembered. Two burly guardsmen marched her forward and forced the priestess to kneel at the foot of the throne.

Jon Snow returned with her from Dragonstone. There were warnings and dark tidings, he said. Ser Jon, though not a member of the Kingsguard himself, could be seen with a hand resting on the pommel of his sword off to the side.

All treated this foreigner with wariness, perhaps warranted. Personally, Tyrion had never seen more than parlor tricks from her, but the guardsmen claimed she healed a crippled dragon, though they were somewhat vague as to the particulars.

"You may rise," the king said. His voice carried even here to the gallery.

"Your Grace." She inclined her head respectfully enough. The taught manners in Asshai, mayhaps.

"You know, I'm getting awfully tired of magic nonsense, my lady. My first taste of it was my wife's brother, Bran. When we got near the wall, the boy went mad and disappeared beyond it, wolf and all. Now I've seen dragons, and a winter that seems without end. You wouldn't happen to know much about that, would you?"

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"I know no more than the Lord of Light reveals to me, Your Grace. I told Ser Jon as much. The signs pointed to Daenerys Targaryen, who was to be the champion of life, but I must've erred."

"Champion against what?" Joffrey demanded from the throne.

"The Great Enemy, Your Grace, the only enemy who matters! The frozen death, the demons who bring the darkness that never ends."

"The Others, you mean, from the stories. You claim they have returned?"

"They are but servants of the Great Other, Your Grace." She stood straight and tall, taller than most men. "But yes, they have returned. The red comet was herald of their coming. At that time, halfway across the world, Daenerys Targaryen hatched three dragons. It was news of this that brought me east. Only she, I thought, had power enough to drive back the cold."

"And yet the cold saw to her," King Joffrey pointed out sardonically. "As I understand it, she burned half of Essos to the ground. Some savior."

Lady Melisandre gulped. "As I said, I erred. But in that error, I brought the champion his weapon! Ser Jon is no beautiful queen that men might love him, but one who serves another. Let him serve not only Your Grace, but all the realms of men! He must reckon with the powers of winter, and break them, or perish."

"You speak as if winter is something that can be fought."

"Do not we all fight winter, in our own ways? We light a fire to drive off the chill and illuminate the darkness. What better fire than dragonfire?"

"I have some ideas for dragonfire myself, but let's go back to the Others. You claim they've returned, and mayhaps you're right. We've lost contact with the Wall, again."

There were gasps and cries of fear among the courtiers. Had the demons already struck? Tyrion could feel something cold gnawing at the base of his spine. They wouldn't be entertaining this foreign priestess if things were not already dire.

"They cannot pass," Melisandre declared with such confidence that it silenced the hall. "There are enchantments woven into it, a barrier the demons cannot pass."

"Yes, I've seen the Wall myself, and heard it said the structure was not erected to keep out men, but something else, something worse."

"Just so, Your Grace. They cannot pass, but whilst the Others march, winter shall never break. Even here we feel the breath of the Great Other. At the wall, it may be so cold that nothing can live and no fire can be lit. Even if they cannot enter into the realms of men, they can still trouble us."

"So we must fight them, then? Can they be killed?"

"Assuredly, Your Grace."

"How?"

"Dragonfire would serve. It was why I thought Daenerys Targaryen was the promised savior. Dragons are fire made flesh, light and life, everything the cold ones hate."

The king thought on that. "What of weapons crafted with dragonfire? Would that serve?"

Melisandre took a moment and considered. "I believe so. Valyrian steel is alive, in its own way, alive with the magic that wrought it, the blood price that was paid."

"We have few enough weapons of Valyrian steel, my lady. How many of these Others are there?"

"Mayhaps a hundred," she answered. "But I warn you, they command an army of the dead, not just men, but snow bears, shadow cats, and worse. Think on how many peasant levies, men-at-arms, and archers you might have to cut through to get at one lord. That is the way of it."

The king steepled his fingers together. "And what of direwolves?"

Melisandre smiled a smile of ecstasy. "They might prove saviors of us all!" she shouted. "These sat before your throne have tasted dragon flesh, lapped at the steaming blood. They have taken the power inside them. For hunting hounds, you could find no better. They are of the cold north, but also light and life! They are ice and fire, as Ser Jon is. With these wolves to aid him, he could hunt the demons on dragonback, bringing them fire and final death before ever they smelled warm blood and a beating heart."

Joffrey looked taken aback. "Honey," he turned to his wife, "did Lady eat the Targaryen dragon?"

"Yes," Queen Sansa answered instantly. "It is surprising that the priestess knew. I told no one."

"You see!" Melisandre shouted! "This is how it must be, my lord! To end this winter, Ser Jon must go beyond the Wall and hunt these demons to extinction! There will be no natural end to these cold winds, that I promise you. We reckon with powers most unnatural."

The king turned to Ser Jon. "I will not command you to go, Goodbrother. Do you believe that you must do this thing?"

Ser Jon approached the throne and knelt before the king. "I do. I must."

The king stood up from the Iron Throne, walked down the steps, and helped him to his feet. "Then you shall not go alone."