With Lord Eddard Stark gone south to serve as the King's Hand, Winterfell stood quieter, colder.
Lady Catelyn and the two Stark daughters had gone with him, leaving Robb and Ser Rodrik to govern in his stead. Young Bran was still recovering from the assassination attempt, confined to bed under Maester Luwin's care.
The realm beyond the castle walls grew darker. Letters from the North arrived like black birds every few days—grim tidings carried by the cold.
Reports of dead men walking. Of wildlings gathering in the forests beyond the Wall.
In the war room, Robb Stark stood over a map stretched across the table, the sigils of neighboring houses pinned in place.
"Father's orders were clear," he said, tracing the line of the Wall with his finger. "The North must prepare. Commander Mormont's letter says the wildlings are rallying. And the wights—there are more sightings each week."
Lynn leaned over the table beside him, eyes narrowing as he read the raven's latest message. The situation was worse than he expected. The wildlings weren't supposed to attack the Watch's patrols this recklessly. Something was driving them—a danger none of them yet understood.
There was rot in the woods, and madness in the wind.
"And one more thing," Robb added quietly. "Jon Snow has decided to go north—to join the Night's Watch. Lord Tyrion Lannister requested to travel with him—he says he wants to see the Wall himself."
Lynn looked up sharply. "The Imp? Heading north?"
Robb nodded. "Aye. And… I'd like you to go with them."
Lynn raised an eyebrow.
"Jon's my brother," Robb continued. "Whatever his birth, he's still a Stark. I can't see him off myself, but I trust you to keep him safe. And the Lannister—well, even a dwarf from that family carries risk. If anything happens to him, it could cost us dearly."
He hesitated, then added, "Ser Rodrik will assign twenty guards to accompany you. Take them north with supplies. And—if you can—help the Watch. You've fought those creatures before. Warn them before they lose more men."
"When do we leave?" Lynn asked.
"Three days," Robb said. "You'll ride with my uncle, Benjen Stark."
Three days later, the column rode north through the biting wind.
Tyrion Lannister, bundled in layers of fur that dwarfed his small frame, rode near the front beside Benjen. Behind them followed Jon Snow, Lynn, and two dozen Winterfell guardsmen towing wagons of food and materials.
The Lannister's two servants struggled to keep his pace. Their master did not.
"Commander Stark," Tyrion called in dry amusement, "I do hope the Wall is as thrilling as they say. I'd hate to come all this way for nothing but frostbite."
Benjen shot him a sidelong look. "You may find it more than thrilling, Lannister. North of the Wall, we don't build gilded castles or drink sweet wine. There are no inns, and no fat courtesans to keep your bed warm."
Tyrion's grin widened. "You wound me, ser. Surely a man clever enough to survive among wolves can find me a pillow or two."
Benjen snorted. "You won't like this journey."
Tyrion only shrugged, as if daring the cold to try him. But the farther they rode, the more the North bared its teeth.
The wind cut like knives, gnawing through fur and leather. By nightfall Tyrion's face was red and raw, and even his boasts came out in puffs of white breath.
When Benjen tossed him a reeking bearskin for warmth, intending it as a small humiliation, the dwarf only chuckled and wrapped himself in it without complaint.
"I've worn worse," he said mildly.
Despite his humor, few men in the camp welcomed him. The last time a Lannister banner had flown in the North, it had brought fire and betrayal.
But Tyrion didn't seem to care for their glares. Each evening, he set up near the fire, unfolded one of his borrowed books, and began to read, humming softly to himself.
One night, Jon's curiosity got the better of him. "What are you reading?" he asked, kneeling to toss another log on the flames.
Tyrion glanced up, smiling. "A treatise on dragons."
Jon blinked. "You believe they ever existed?"
"Of course I do."
He shut the book, tapping the cover with one short finger. "Giants, wights, and the undead—they fill your Night's Watch pledges, don't they? Even your Lord Eddard acknowledges them. Why not dragons?"
Jon said nothing. Tyrion's tone had softened, sincere now. "Curious. You look at me, Jon Snow—what do you see?"
Jon frowned. "I see Tyrion Lannister."
Tyrion's chuckle was low. "A generous answer. What you actually see is a dwarf—twisted, ugly, smaller than every man around me. My brother has his looks. Robert has his hammer. And me?" He tapped his head again. "I have this. Books are the weapons of the mind. They're my way of keeping sharp in a world that would rather dull me down."
Jon listened, silent as the fire crackled.
"When your body is a prison," Tyrion said softly, "books are keys. They free you. They let even a dwarf ride dragons and feel the wind of another life."
The last line lingered between them. Jon stared into the flames, and for the first time, he saw not a mocking Lannister, but a man who wore his scars with wit instead of shame.
---
"So you two are talking about dragons."
Lynn's voice came from behind them. He set down an armful of firewood, watching the two with faint amusement.
"You also believe in such tales?" Tyrion asked, intrigued.
Lynn smiled. "Where I come from, we have our own stories about dragons—Eastern ones. They're nothing like yours. No wings, no scales of gold. They're long, serpentine creatures that swim through clouds instead of air. They bring rain, command thunder, and rule by wisdom instead of fire."
"Eastern dragons?" Tyrion's eyebrows rose. "Beyond the Jade Sea, then. Tell me more."
So Lynn did—about dragons that coil through storms, change size at will, vanish beneath oceans or rise to form thunderclouds.
"When they soar," Lynn finished, "they ride the wind like kings. When they sleep, they vanish beneath the waves, unseen yet ever present. To control such power, they say, one must learn balance—between strength and patience."
For a long while, neither Tyrion nor Jon spoke. The crackle of fire and the whisper of snow told their own quiet stories.
Jon was first to exhale. "Balance," he repeated, almost to himself. He wasn't thinking of dragons anymore—but of himself, his father, and the Wall that now called his name.
From that night onward, the three men—the bastard, the dwarf, and the nameless swordsman—shared the same fire. Different worlds, same exile.
Weeks passed in frost and silence.
Though many along the road still muttered behind his back, Tyrion found two companions who didn't treat him as less. Jon respected his mind. Lynn, his courage.
And Tyrion, for his part, found himself oddly fond of both.
"You know," he said one morning, glancing at Lynn, "there's something peculiar about you. You handle a sword like a sellsword, think like a maester, and talk about dragons like a priest. By the gods, even I can't decide which confuses me more."
"You're not much simpler yourself," Lynn replied lightly. "A Lannister who loves books more than whores and wine? That's a rarity even rarer than dragons."
They both laughed.
In the end, between sarcasm and sincerity, respect took root—a friendship born not from alliance but from recognition.
As the camp settled that night, Jon watched them from across the fire. He wasn't sure if he was uneasy or grateful.
Two men from utterly different worlds—one mocked, one mistrusted—and yet both seemed freer than he'd ever felt.
Above them, beyond the swirling clouds, the wind howled over the frozen ground like the roar of something ancient and restless.