The wind howled outside the timber hall of Castle Black, rattling the shutters as if some pale giant were clawing at the walls. Inside, however, the long hall glowed warm with lantern-light, fire, and the aroma of steaming crab.
Commander Jeor Mormont raised his thick grey brows as he looked across the table at his guest. "Are you truly in such a hurry to leave, Lord Tyrion?" His voice carried both reluctance and a faint hope, as if wishing the answer might change.
Tyrion Lannister dabbed grease from his fingers, his mismatched eyes glinting with amusement. "If I don't return soon, my dear brother Jaime will begin to imagine something dreadful has happened to me. He might even think you've tried to persuade me to don black and take the oath." His smirk widened. "And lions do not join the Night's Watch, Lord Commander. Even if we had children to spare, none would be sent to freeze atop The Wall."
Mormont cracked a crab claw in his massive fist—an effortless feat that reminded Tyrion why the Old Bear's name still inspired respect. "It would be good if that were true," he said with a grunt. "You have a sharp mind, Tyrion. And the Watch desperately needs men like you."
Tyrion swept a theatrical bow from his seat. "If that is meant as flattery, then I shall scour the Seven Kingdoms for every dwarf and send them to your service." Laughter rippled along the table as he tossed a crab leg into his mouth.
Not everyone laughed.
Ser Alliser Thorne's hard eyes glittered like black stones. He neither smiled nor touched his food, brooding in the corner as if the shadows were his companions. Tyrion could all but smell the man's disdain.
Of course, he knew the reason. Alliser Thorne had once been a knight of House Thorne in the Crownlands—a loyalist who had fought for the Targaryens during the rebellion. After King's Landing fell, Tywin Lannister had offered him a choice: take the black, or lose his head before nightfall. The humiliation had sunk deep into the man's bones, festering into hatred.
"I see," Alliser finally hissed, "that though you are not even half a man, you speak as if you were twice one. Perhaps you and I should settle our differences another way—say, in a contest?"
"Why bother?" Tyrion replied calmly. "We have far better opponents here—the crabs."
Alliser Thorne's face contorted. With a sharp turn of his cloak, he stormed out of the hall, his boots striking the stone like blows of a hammer.
Tyrion let out a sigh. "There goes another one. My tongue has a cruelty all its own."
"Ser Alliser has always been difficult," Ser Jeremey Rykker muttered. "He trained half our new recruits into hating him with a passion. I doubt even the crabs like him."
Tyrion raised his cup. "Gentlemen, be grateful. The man ought to be shoveling horse dung, not lecturing frightened boys."
"The Watch has no shortage of stable boys," Mormont said. "Rapists, thieves, runaways, bastards—those we have in abundance. But knights?" He gestured toward the door where Alliser had exited. "Knights are rare. And he fought bravely in the battle for King's Landing."
Rykker snorted. "Too bad he fought for the wrong king."
Silence fell for a brief moment before Tyrion spoke up again. "My apologies, Lord Commander. I fear I have robbed you of a promising recruit."
"You mean Jon Snow, don't you? Ned Stark's bastard." Mormont wiped his beard thoughtfully. "Benjen told me of him. A serious boy. Quick to learn."
"Yes," Tyrion admitted. "He had made up his mind to join you. But when war called Lord Eddard south, the boy followed him to King's Landing. Another casualty of southern politics."
"War," Mormont repeated softly, as though tasting the bitterness of the word. "It seems that accursed thing reaches even here."
At the end of the table, Maester Aemon lifted his blind, clouded eyes. "Do not mistake Lord Tyrion for being small," he said. "He is a giant, who has traveled to the ends of the world."
His quiet voice made even the grumbling knights fall silent. Age clung to him like dust on an ancient tome, yet his presence commanded reverence.
Tyrion felt warmth—real warmth—stir in his chest. Did they want to ask of things beyond the Narrow Sea? Of Viserys, of the last Targaryen girl, of Jorah Mormont's fate? The Old Bear's eyes hinted at the question, but Tyrion remained silent. He had no wish to stir old wounds.
When the feast was done and the hall emptied, Mormont beckoned Tyrion to the hearth. He pressed a mug of spiced warm wine into his hands—the heat so sharp it brought tears to Tyrion's eyes.
"I owe you thanks," Tyrion said. "For assigning guards for my journey back. I value my neck far more than my pride."
Mormont stared into the fire. "Life here grows harder each year. Young men cling to memories of the world they left behind—mothers, wives, fields, freedoms. But once they take the oath, those memories become chains they must learn to break."
He sighed, the sound filled with years of weight. "My own family… Since my son disgraced our House, and my sister took up rule, I have not seen my nieces in years."
"Your son?" Tyrion asked gently. "I heard he has found work across the sea. Doing well, they say."
The Old Bear shrugged. "Whatever he is now… it is no concern of mine. I once hoped he would join us here, but that hope is long dead. I swore my oath. I gave my life to this order. I cannot control him anymore."
"Letting go is hard," Tyrion murmured, imagining Tywin's cold, disapproving eyes. "Even for fathers."
Mormont turned from the fire. "Tyrion, I will not mince words. I need your help."
There it was—the true heart of the conversation.
"My sister is the Queen. My father rules half the realm. My brother is the King's sworn shield," Tyrion said. "Tell me what you need."
"Tell them we need aid. Tell them the Watch is dying. You have seen it with your own eyes. Six hundred men here at Castle Black. Two hundred at the Shadow Tower. Fewer still at Eastwatch. And fewer than one-third are able to fight." His voice tightened with frustration. "The Wall is three hundred miles long. I can spare three men for each mile. Three."
Tyrion exhaled slowly. "And a new war rises in the south. Men will be needed."
"And what of the war in the North?" Mormont asked sharply. "I sent Benjen to look for Lord Yohn Royce's youngest son. The boy insisted on leading his first ranging, claiming it was a knight's duty. Foolish, proud, stubborn. I sent two skilled men with him. Now one has returned as a deserter, and the others are missing. Lost beyond The Wall."
The Old Bear's voice grew heavy. "This is not a Watch. This is a graveyard waiting to be filled."
Tyrion laid a hand on the Old Bear's arm. "I promise you this—I will speak to the King. I will speak to my father and my brother. Whether they listen…" He left the rest unsaid.
"The summer is ending," Mormont said. "Nine years. Soon ten. When a long summer breaks, the winter that follows is even longer. And darker. The Maesters have confirmed it."
Tyrion forced a smile. "When I was a child, septons told me that a summer this long meant the gods were blessing us. Eternal summer, they called it."
"Eternal foolishness," Mormont growled. "The days grow shorter. The cold deepens. And there are things in the North—Direwolves, mammoths, bears as large as aurochs… and things even worse. Things that walk in the dark."
Tyrion shivered despite the heat of the hearth. "Every northerner I meet seems eager to tell me tales of Wights and White Walkers."
"They are not tales," Mormont said quietly.
That night, Tyrion climbed The Wall. The wind hit him like a swarm of icy daggers, slicing through cloak and flesh alike. He looked across the frozen wilderness—the haunted forest stretching endlessly, its trees black fingers clawing at the dying light.
Beyond that lay nothing but darkness.
The end of the world.
"Jon Snow would have liked this view," he muttered to himself. "Fool of a boy."
Far to the south, in the Wolf's Den, a very different rhythm filled the air—iron against iron.
Gendry hammered a glowing breastplate, the sparks dancing like golden fireflies. The furnace roared behind him, illuminating the muscles of his arms and chest, glistening with sweat beneath his smithing apron. The work demanded focus; when he forged, the world narrowed into heat, rhythm, and instinct.
Daenerys watched him silently, her silver-gold hair shimmering under the firelight. There was something entrancing about the way he moved—strong, steady, shaping the world with his hands. He was beautiful in a rough, straightforward way that stirred her heart.
Gendry plunged the heated plate into the quenching trough. Steam hissed upward with a sound like a cat spitting.
"Looks good, doesn't it?" he said, lifting the finished piece with a proud smile. The armor was shaped smaller, tailored for Daenerys's frame.
"It's beautiful," she said softly. "You truly are remarkable."
He grinned. "Strong work for a strong girl."
She flushed. "A dragon isn't afraid of fire."
"No one should stand too close to fire," he murmured, reaching out to pinch her cheek. "Even dragons."
Daenerys felt warmth pool in her chest. He was proud of her. She would make him proud in return. One day, she would rise as high as the legends promised she would.
Gendry looked at the flames and briefly wondered if he would ever awaken something greater within himself. The fire in him felt close—but not yet ready.
Not yet.
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