"Eddard Karstark wants me to return and become the Lord of Casterly Rock?"
Tyrion Lannister blinked his mismatched eyes - one green, one black as if trying to clear a persistent hallucination. His face was a map of disbelief, his heart a chaotic storm of conflicting emotions. Tommen was dead. The gentle boy, the only one of Cersei's brood who lacked the lion's cruelty, had succumbed to a fever in the mud of the West. A sharp pang of genuine grief pricked at Tyrion's chest; he had truly liked that nephew.
But beneath the sorrow, a wild, electrifying thrill was surging. The "Little Devil's" greatest desire had always been the recognition of his house, to inherit the Rock that was his by law but denied him by his father's hatred.
The idea of being the Warden of the West... it was a plot twist even the most imaginative bards of Lannisport wouldn't have dared to sing. Who would ever look to a Tyrion for protection?
"Don't forget, you took an oath: no wife, no land, no children," Bronn said, his voice a sharp rasp as he gnawed on a strip of tough, salted beef. The sellsword-turned-ranger was fond of pouring cold water on Tyrion's fires. Having been isolated at the Wall, Bronn was still largely ignorant of how quickly the map of the Seven Kingdoms had been rewritten. In his mind, he was still hoping Tywin Lannister would simply buy their way out of the frost.
"About that," Maester Aemon interrupted, his blind, milky eyes fixed on a point somewhere above Tyrion's head. He groped across the table until his thin fingers found a second parchment. "King Stannis Baratheon has issued a royal pardon in the name of the Iron Throne. He declares that the previous charges of regicide and kinslaying were the 'malicious fabrications of vipers.' Because the oath was extracted under the duress of a false accusation, the Crown has declared it null and void. You are a free man, Tyrion."
"What?!"
Before Tyrion could reach for the letter, Bronn had already snatched it. The mercenary read the lines with a face that grew increasingly pale. He looked for his own name, but found only the golden seal of the Stag.
"Ha!" Bronn spat, tossing the parchment back onto the table. "Even the shit of a Lannister glows gold in the dark. You get a kingdom and a pardon, and what about the mercenary left to freeze in the mud? No one cares if Bronn was wronged!"
"Patience, my friend. This game is never as simple as a single scroll," Tyrion said, offering a small, conciliatory smile. He turned back to Aemon. "Maester, surely Lord Snow must agree to this? If I just walk out of the gatehouse, it might provoke a mutiny among the brothers who actually believe in the vows."
"True," the old Maester nodded, his many-linked chain clinking softly. "I have been on this Wall for longer than you have been alive, Lord Tyrion, and I have never seen the laws bent like this. The men who come here are either noble souls seeking a higher purpose or criminals fleeing the axe. A man who was framed, forced to swear, and then rescued by a King's decree... you are a unique precedent."
Aemon's sightless gaze seemed to pierce Tyrion. "But the choice is also yours. Do you truly wish to leave? When we first met, I called you a giant among us. No one understood those words then, but now? You have settled sixty thousand Free Folk in the Gift without a single village burning. Half the peace we enjoy is your work. Are you sure you want to trade this purpose for a pile of gold in the West?"
Tyrion lowered his head, falling into a rare, brooding silence. Bronn watched him, eyes wide with fury, gnawing his beef as if it were Tyrion's neck. To the sellsword, there was no choice, anyone who stayed in this freezing hellhole by choice was a lunatic.
But Tyrion felt a strange pull. At Castle Black, Jon Snow treated him as an equal. The Free Folk, simple-minded and focused on survival, respected his wisdom more than they feared a giant's club. Here, he was a "Hand" in all but name, and for the first time in his life, he was happy.
"No matter what, I must return," Tyrion said finally, his voice firm.
Maester Aemon's face showed a flicker of disappointment. "I understand. Not everyone is an old man who can treat a ruin like a home. I will do my best to quiet the whispers among the officers."
"No need," Tyrion chirped, his wit returning. "Because I'll be back."
"Back?" Bronn and Aemon asked simultaneously, their tones vastly different.
"Yes, back," Tyrion explained, stroking his dark-gold stubble. "The Wall is too far from the heart of the world. By the time a message reaches White Harbor, the Mermen think it's a fairy tale. By the time it reaches King's Landing, it's a myth. We are working ourselves to death fighting the dead, while the South is busy murdering the living. There needs to be someone with a Lord's title, a sharp mind, and a very loud tongue to act as the Wall's voice in the South."
Tyrion pointed a finger at his own chest. "And who better than me? I'll govern the West, yes. But I'll be the Night's Watch's most expensive recruiter."
Aemon's aged face broke into a smile. "I understand. Take the letters, speak with Jon, and depart. I suggest the sea-route from Eastwatch. The King's Road is buried in drifts that won't harden for a month. A ship can sail day and night. You'll reach the Trident in half the time."
As they stepped out into the biting wind, Bronn grabbed Tyrion's collar. "What about me? You're going to be a Lord, and I'm just a Ranger. Am I staying here to become a popsicle?"
Tyrion patted the mercenary's hand. "Don't be absurd. You're coming with me. How do you feel about becoming a 'Raven', the kind that wanders the Seven Kingdoms looking for fresh meat for the Wall? It's a job that involves a lot of taverns and very little snow."
"I'm a Ranger, not a recruiter!" Bronn barked, though he let go of the collar.
"You're whatever I pay you to be, Bronn," Tyrion grinned. "Now, let's go find our Lord Commander."
Harrenhal.
The setting sun cast a long, amber glow over the scorched stones of the fortress. It was noon, and the road to the main gate was a river of humanity.
Harrenhal had transformed. The area outside the walls, once a barren military camp, was now a bustling trade hub. Hundreds of merchants had set up stalls along the road, hawking everything from winter-stored apples to Myrish lace and finely crafted Northern leather. The air was a thick, intoxicating slurry of woodsmoke and the scent of sizzling sausages.
Tyrion pulled a handful of copper from his pouch, and a merchant handed over a skewer of five grease-laden sausages. He shared them with his companions: Jon Snow, Samwell Tarly, and Dolorous Edd.
"I've never seen a place so... alive," Dolorous Edd muttered, stuffing a sausage into his mouth and immediately yelping as it burned his tongue. "It's unnatural. All this noise. Something terrible is definitely about to happen."
"This is what a kingdom looks like when the swords are sheathed for five minutes, Edd," Tyrion said, savoring the chew of the rich meat.
He noted the banners fluttering in the wind. The Mormont Bear was prominent. "The Bear women are here for the tourney?" Tyrion wondered. "I suppose the 'Wizard' doesn't care much for Southern gender roles."
Bronn's eyes were darting between the stalls, but he wasn't looking at the goods. He was tracking the camp followers and prostitutes weaving through the crowd. "Can a black-cloak enter the lists? I could use some spending money, and I'm bored of hitting straw dummies."
"Just ask the man at the gate," Jon Snow said, leadng his horse toward the inner portcullis.
The guard, a brawny Karstark veteran with a thick beard and a Sunburst badge, let out a booming laugh. "The tourney is open to any man with a horse and a heart, though it's a rare sight to see the Brothers of the Wall joining the fray!"
"Brother," Jon Snow called out, his voice steady. "Announce that the Queen of the Trident's brother is here to see her."
The guard froze, squinting at the newcomers. His eyes locked onto Jon's face. "Jon Snow? The Lord Commander?"
"The same."
Jon felt a strange, heavy irony in his chest. He had spent his life loathing his bastardy, and now he was returning to visit his own "Kissed-by-Fire" mistress and a son he had never met. He was following in his father's footsteps in the most painful way possible.
The gates swung open. Minutes later, a retinue emerged. Sansa Stark led the way, looking every bit the Queen in a gown of silver silk. Behind her loomed Brienne of Tarth, a wall of blue-enameled plate.
"Jon?!" Sansa gasped, a radiant, genuine smile breaking her courtly mask. "It really is you! I thought it was a prank. I was nearly ready to have Brienne toss you into the lake."
Sansa's relationship with Jon had been a cold thing in their youth, poisoned by Catelyn's resentment. But under Eddard's influence, she had learned to see the world through a tactical lens. A loyal Lord Commander at the Wall was a better ally than a distant "brother" was an enemy.
She turned to Tyrion and Bronn, her expression softening into one of deep, lingering gratitude. "Lord Tyrion, Ser Bronn. I am delighted to see you again. Harrenhal has not forgotten that you shielded a Stark girl when she was alone in the Lion's den."
"Lady Sansa," Tyrion bowed as deeply as his frame allowed. "May you always be as beautiful as the dawn." He couldn't resist a joke. "But let's skip the poetry. Can I meet the new 'Lord of the West'? I'm eager to see if Eddard's crown is as heavy as the stories say."
"He is in the Godswood," Sansa said, gesturing for them to follow. "He is with Archmaester Marwyn and Lady Morroya of House Hightower. They've been locked away for days discussing... well, I don't think it's politics. He's left the tourney and the coronation to me."
Tyrion's eyebrows shot up. Marwyn the Mage? The most "heretical" mind in the Citadel was here?
The group walked toward the ancient heart of the castle, leaving the bustle of the gates behind for the quiet, humming power of the Godswood.
[System Notification: Political Reunion: The Stark-Lannister-Watch Triumvirate.]
[Status: Magic Spread Progress: 0.8%.]
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