The time for farewells had come.
Jon Snow leaned her face on her hand, seated in the smithy, idly watching the royal throng prepare for its departure from Winterfell. The once-vibrant castle was now draped in an air of gathering desolation.
She had already cautioned Renly to be wary of poison. Yet she had not anticipated that he would nearly fall victim to it twice within Winterfell's own walls.
"Oh, indeed, it is quite lamentable," a voice beside her said. Tyrion Lannister held a goblet in his hand, gently swirling its contents. "The wine in Winterfell is truly dreadful. Fortunately, I brought my own."
His misshapen physique rendered him rather comical in the stark northern light. Yet Jon did not mind and offered a faint chuckle. "A wise choice. Will you remain in Winterfell?"
"Who would care about the whereabouts of a dwarf?" Tyrion sighed softly. "Perhaps my nephew might. If I were more useful, he could elevate me to an advisor and take me to King's Landing. But alas, my counsel is rarely sought."
"Brienne, the daughter of Tarth, is still of legitimate birth," Jon replied, her gaze distant. "Even if a prince desperately requires pawns to maintain his rule, a bastard holds the least value. Even as a scholar, I am not deemed worthy."
Tyrion took a sip of his wine, remaining silent, for the truth was self-evident.
"You know," he said after a moment, "at times, you remind me of my sister, Cersei."
"Are you referring to the queen? Is she also a bastard?"
Tyrion couldn't help but chuckle and shake his head. "No, no, no. She has always aspired to be a man—to battle on the field rather than be confined to the birthing bed."
Jon listened earnestly, yet aside from a flicker of amusement, she felt no other sentiment. Moreover, she was destined not to journey south. The wrongs of spring had already accumulated too many. Once her true lineage was discovered by those with ulterior motives, it would ensnare Eddard Stark and even Catelyn.
"Thus, Tyrion Lannister, what purpose does it serve for you to discuss these matters with me?"
Tyrion lamented with a theatrical sigh. Originally, my nephew wished to take you south. Although the status of a bastard is not particularly honorable, you are of assistance to him, and Lannisters pay their debts. Finding you a suitable match would not pose a problem."
Indeed, any illegitimate daughter, once adorned with the golden dragons of House Lannister, could be made to seem as good as trueborn.
Jon smiled wryly. But soon her expression shifted to one of resolve. "I am truly grateful. Yet I have no intentions of marrying at present. I wish to journey across the Narrow Sea to Braavos and Lys, to embark on an adventure. Who knows, perhaps I might even find a dragon egg."
This last was uttered as a jest, yet it bore the weight of Jon Snow's most absurd dream. From the glimpses of the future she had foreseen and the past she knew, she understood her precarious position. Unless she could soar the skies on the back of a dragon or wield extraordinary martial prowess, she would inevitably become a second Lysa Arryn—or perhaps even less.
"Well, then I wish you success," Tyrion remarked with a grin before he ambled away with his amusing gait. Of course, he had no intention of traversing the seas like this Stark girl. However, he did possess a certain curiosity to witness the Wall in the north. Benjen Stark had claimed that the Night's Watch was undermanned, prompting his nephew to suggest that Tyrion personally assess the situation.
To be honest, Tyrion mused, I have encountered few princes like Renly. The boy did not squander his father's legacy but shouldered it. A different king might have suspected his son of plotting to usurp his power. Yet Renly was burdened with the drunken Robert, who relished any opportunity to evade the responsibilities of kingship.
As Tyrion walked, he saw Cersei storming past, her countenance grim and seething with fury.
"Oh, what troubles my dear sister?" Tyrion called out to the irate woman, well aware of the consequences her wrath could invoke.
"What else could it be? My son nearly fell victim to poisoning! What are the Kingsguard doing?"
Tyrion gazed at his sister in astonishment, as if she were a stranger. "I thought you did not care for him."
"I do not. But what of it? He is of Lannister blood and ought not to be so ruthlessly harmed in Winterfell."
"Oh, my sister," Tyrion sighed. It seemed Cersei had placed her spies close to her son. Naturally, she was deeply concerned with his every movement, yet this was hardly a good omen. "Consider, with that lovely mind of yours, whether the folk of Winterfell would have any reason to harm my good nephew. He has been getting along splendidly with Robb Stark, akin to brothers, and Eddard Stark holds him in high regard. Moreover, in the future, Myrcella is to wed into the North—a most esteemed honor. How could the Starks engage in such treachery?"
Cersei furrowed her brow. "Are you suggesting that Petyr Baelish orchestrated all of this from his cell? Surely that is preposterous."
"It seems rather unlikely," Tyrion had to concede. "Who would harbor such animosity towards my nephew? Even the most foolish of Littlefinger's associates would hardly resort to the murder of a king's heir… unless the goal is the Iron Throne itself."
A dark thought murmured within his mind, but Tyrion dismissed it. After all, Joffrey was still his nephew.
"Alas, dear sister, temper your rage and return to King's Landing with the king. I shall assist you in uncovering the truth. Shall I?"
Tyrion consoled his sister, being more obsequious than he had ever been in his life—a lesson learned from observing his unfortunate nephew. When the seven-year-old Lancel had once confused the Hightower family with the Westerlings, Cersei had forced him to write lines for an entire afternoon. She had instilled in him a profound fear of erring, ensuring his every action conformed meticulously to Tywin's expectations. The thought of being barred from Casterly Rock by Cersei was a most dire prospect.
"Is that true?" Cersei squinted skeptically.
"Oh, it is indeed true. Our father has been appointed as the Hand of the King, has he not? He is also aware of the near-calamity that befell Renly. He is Tywin Lannister, after all." Tyrion blinked. "A Lannister always pays his debts. Those who provoke the lions find themselves in dire straits."
"That much is true," Cersei huffed.
"However, sister, it would be prudent to arrange a food taster from this point onward. Poison is a most insidious threat."
"Such simple matters do not require your guidance," Cersei declared haughtily, lifting her chin.
Tyrion merely smiled, understanding all the things she would not—and perhaps could not—say.