Winter Is Coming

The Foundling

Tyrion Lannister swallowed a large gulp of ale and leaned back against the table behind him. Sitting opposite, Lord Commander Mormont refilled his own mug, sighing as he set down the flagon.

"Did you ever know my son, Lord Tyrion?" Mormont asked, his voice grim.

The men of the Night's Watch always seemed grim and full of dismal thoughts. Perhaps it was the cold. Or perhaps they just need women, Tyrion thought.

"I can't say I knew him, no," he replied. "I met him once. He was exiled by Lord Stark, was he not?"

Mormont's cheek feathered. "Ned Stark didn't even give him the choice of taking the Black, Lord Tyrion. My son fled the executioner's sword."

Tyrion eyed Mormont thoughtfully. The Old Bear must have a reason for mentioning his son. Mormont continued,

"Lord Stark would not be afraid of angering a great House, if he felt duty or honour required it."

Tyrion swirled his ale. "Is that a warning, Lord Commander?"

Mormont smiled. "We of the Night's Watch play no part in the game of thrones."

"But it matters to you — now especially — that the great Houses are at peace, is that it?"

Mormont nodded. "Our Maester told you our need."

Told was an understatement. Maester Aemon had practically begged him to find more recruits for the Night's Watch.

"Lord Stark will send you recruits, I presume," Tyrion mused, "but perhaps you fear my own House — the southern houses — would oppose him. I see." Mormont waited. "You understand I have great admiration for the Night's Watch, Lord Commander?" The old leader gave a reluctant nod. Tyrion smiled, small, rueful. "But I am afraid you overestimate my influence. My sister and I..." He stopped himself, and shrugged. "It will be a miracle if she suffers my companionship long enough for me to introduce the topic of the Night's Watch."

The Lord Commander sighed, and took a large swallow of ale. "Then I suppose we will have to rely on Lord Stark's generosity," he said. He looked exhausted, old and weary. Tyrion wished there was more he could do.

"He's a good man," Tyrion said at last. "He will understand your need, and perhaps he will convince the king. I heard they are great friends."

"Perhaps," Mormont agreed. "That must be my hope."

There was silence as Tyrion finished the remaining ale in his mug and thumped it down on the table.

"Lord Eddard's adopted daughter; Lyra Stark," he said at length. "She is very like her father."

"You've met her?" Mormont leaned forward to refill Tyrion's mug.

"I spoke with her briefly on my visit to Winterfell." Tyrion smiled inwardly at the memory. She had been surprisingly kind — there had been no dwarf jokes, at least. "The story goes that she was found by the Night's Watch all those years ago, before Eddard Stark took her in." He shrugged. "Though perhaps it is a false rumour. One finds it hard to distinguish lies from truth these days."

The Lord Commander hesitated for a moment, as if deciding whether Tyrion was trustworthy. Finally, he said,

"It is no rumour, Lord Tyrion. I was in the ranging party that found her. Far out beyond the Wall, dressed in nothing but rags, as if the winds weren't already cold enough to turn her to ice. We took her back to Castle Black, a child no more than three days old, and she stayed with us almost a month. She had strange blue eyes; icy blue. She seemed to watch us, like she aware. But Lord Stark took her to Winterfell seventeen years ago, and I haven't seen her since."

Tyrion said nothing. For once, he did not know what to say. He had thought her polite enough, if a little quiet and solemn, but... The eyes Mormont had mentioned had struck him, too. They were a blue that made him think of cold nights with no fire to warm him, of freezing winds who wished nothing more than to claim his life for their own. Yet there had been a glow of kindness and compassion in those eyes which had led him to approach her, a sort of warm, comforting pity. He had liked her and trusted her, and he was an excellent judge of character.

"Beyond the Wall," he mused, more to himself than to his companion. "Then who..."

Mormont shrugged. "A Wildling baby perhaps," he said. "But she's a Stark now, whatever she was once."

"True enough, Lord Commander," Tyrion smiled. He leaned forward and clinked his mug with the Old Bear's.

Mormont saluted him with his drink. "To families letting you down," he said, and downed his ale.

Tyrion smiled, a little sadly perhaps. "I'll drink to that," he agreed.