Castle Black, Guest Chambers
"Truth be told, the swill they brew at Castle Black is as low and bitter as a Mole's Town whore. Yet, somehow, I find I don't mind the taste."
Tyrion Lannister tilted his head back, draining a mug of the murky, bitter ale before turning his mismatched eyes toward Samwell—or rather, the consciousness of Jon currently inhabiting him.
"You know, Samwell, I once had a magnificent dream. I wanted to bed every whore in the world before I met my end."
Seeing no immediate response from Jon, Tyrion took the boy's silence for the wide-eyed innocence of a green boy. He leaned back, grinning with a touch of performative arrogance. "Judging by that look on your face, I'd wager you're still a 'spring chicken,' aren't you? Not a drop of sin on your soul?"
"My father was... strict," Jon answered, sifting through Sam's memories to find the right tone. "In Horn Hill, neither my brother nor I had much opportunity for drink, outside of the formal feasts."
The exchange of consciousness was seamless. Within the shared space of Sam's mind, Jon could feel the boy's embarrassment, but he suppressed it, utilizing the vessel with surgical precision. Sam had become, for all intents and purposes, a tool for Jon's will, a passenger in his own skin until the timer on the system finally ran dry.
"Then you truly are a pitiable lot," Tyrion sighed, waddling back to the keg for a refill. "I've spent my entire journey from the West enjoying the finer things. If you ever get the chance, you must see the sights of King's Landing."
He pulled the tap, watching the frothy liquid rise. "Though it's a shame. A fighter like you isn't likely to become a 'Wandering Crow.' Yoren, the one who usually runs the King's Road, has shared many a brothel with me."
"Do you truly intend to spend your entire life drifting in this stupor?" Jon asked, his voice dropping an octave, losing its Sam-like hesitancy.
Jon found Tyrion's current hedonism exhausting. Even knowing this man would eventually be one of the few survivors, he knew the price the Imp would pay was astronomical. Tyrion would lose his family, his home, and become the most hated "Kinslayer" in the realm.
In Westeros, kinslaying and the breaking of Guest Right were the twin unforgivable sins. Even the legendary Brynden "Bloodraven" Rivers, who saved the Targaryen dynasty multiple times, spent his life shadowed by the curse of killing his half-brother, Daemon Blackfyre. Tyrion's fate was a dark mirror of that legacy.
"What's this? Has our 'Blood-Ox' Samwell Tarly truly received a vision from the Warrior?"
Tyrion's smirk didn't quite reach his eyes. A flicker of unease crossed his face—an instinctual warning that the person sitting across from him was not entirely human.
"I received something in my faint, yes. But it wasn't the sort of 'revelation' you imagine. It was a dream... or perhaps, a memory of things that have not yet happened."
"Heh... that's a joke in poor taste." Tyrion's hand trembled slightly as he raised the mug. "Did Alliser Thorne rattle your brain that badly? If you're seeing ghosts, I should probably call for Maester Aemon."
Despite his dismissal, Tyrion couldn't look away. Jon's gaze was piercing, devoid of the soft uncertainty Sam usually carried. Earlier that day, when Sam had taken his vows in the sept, the candles had flared with a sudden, impossible brilliance. The recruits were already whispering that it was the Seven acknowledging a coward turned hero.
"If you have no interest, so be it," Jon said coolly. "I thought you might have questions about the return of dragons... or perhaps, how you might actually inherit Casterly Rock."
Thud.
The wooden mug slipped from Tyrion's fingers, hitting the floor with a heavy, hollow sound.
Splatter.
The cheap ale erupted in a spray, soaking Tyrion's boots and the hem of his trousers. He looked as though he had wet himself, but the indignity was forgotten. Jon's words had struck him like a bolt from a scorpion.
"I... you... you're mocking me." Tyrion scrambled off his chair, stepping through the puddle to stand directly in front of Jon. Despite the disparity in height, the intensity rolling off the dwarf was as sharp as a Lannister lion's claws. "Tell me. Now."
"I will tell you," Jon said, glancing at the system timer invisible to all but him. "But only if you grant me a condition. We must enter the Haunted Forest before the sun sets tonight."
"The Haunted Forest? Seven Hells, lad, the name itself is an ill omen. Are you planning to sacrifice me to the Old Gods?"
"Do you want to know, or don't you?"
Jon left the choice hanging in the cold air of the room. Tyrion's internal struggle lasted only seconds before his insatiable thirst for knowledge won out. He bent down, retrieved his mug, and poured himself a fresh draught with a shaky hand.
"Fine," Tyrion growled, taking a long pull. "I believe in magic, boy, but I've never put stock in prophecies. Speak."
Using his knowledge of the "original" tragedy, Jon began to weave the tale, centering it on Tyrion's perspective. He spoke of the golden lion's fall and the rot at the heart of the capital.
"Pissing off the top of the Wall was the last bit of peace you'll know..."
"Your sister and your brother... a secret that will drown the realm in blood..."
"And in the end, your dearest friend will hold the dagger..."
Tyrion sat in a stunned silence that stretched for several long minutes. His mind, usually a whirlwind of wit and calculation, was for once utterly still.
"It's... a staggering story," Tyrion finally whispered. He cleared his throat, trying to find a flaw in the narrative. "But I have a question. Even if my sister were to use wildfire to burn her enemies to ash, the lords of Westeros would never sit idly by while a woman sits the Iron Throne. Not after what happened to Rhaenyra Targaryen."
The "Dance of the Dragons" was a scar on the history of the realm. The men of the Seven Kingdoms had burned the world rather than let a queen rule.
"I only tell you what I have seen," Jon replied. "I never said it was an inevitability. Only that it is the path you are currently on."
"Cersei and Jaime... if that comes to light, Joffrey's reign will be a nightmare." Tyrion rubbed his face, looking exhausted. He cursed his own curiosity; he had walked into this room a tourist and was leaving it a man haunted by the ghost of his family's future.
"The deal is not yet struck, My Lord," Jon reminded him. "You need to convince Jeor Mormont to let us pass the gates. The clock is ticking."
"Seven Hells! I should never have come to this frozen waste!" Tyrion hopped down from his chair, pacing the small room. "Fine. I believe I have the words to sway the Old Bear. He wants the Lannisters to take the Watch seriously; I'll give him a reason."
"I knew the future Hand of the Queen would be quick with a plan," Jon said with a faint, knowing smile.
"Stop calling me that!" Tyrion barked, though there was no heat in it. He looked at Jon with a mix of wariness and respect. "Why this obsession with the Haunted Forest? What's truly out there?"
"A treasure," Jon said, standing up. "One left behind by the men of the Age of Heroes. And I intend to claim it."
Tyrion's eyes gleamed at the word 'treasure.' The Lannister blood in his veins responded instinctively. "Well, then. Why are we still standing in this drafty room? Let's go see about a gate."