Man Of Steel, Shield Of Ice

Tyrion Lannister

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with the sound of music and laughter, but there was a strange unease lingering in the air. Tyrion Lannister sat near the edge of the hall, his goblet in hand, surveying the scene with his usual detached amusement. The Northmen, so full of pride and austerity, were quieter than he expected. Their laughter was forced, their smiles thin, and their glances often darted toward the door.

It didn't take a clever man to see that something was amiss, but Tyrion was no ordinary man.

"Doesn't quite feel like a feast, does it?" his brother Jaime remarked, leaning closer. His golden armor gleamed in the firelight, a stark contrast to the somber tones of the North. As always, Jaime looked every inch the gallant knight, though Tyrion knew his brother's patience for northern stoicism was already wearing thin.

"More like a funeral," Tyrion replied with a smirk. "And judging by the faces of our hosts, they've yet to bury the corpse."

Jaime chuckled softly, but his eyes scanned the room with a soldier's instinct. "The North always did have its secrets. Perhaps we'll learn a few tonight."

Tyrion's gaze drifted to the high table, where Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark sat side by side. The king leaned close to his old friend, speaking in low tones. Ned's face was as grim as ever, though he nodded at whatever Robert was saying.

A moment later, Ned rose and gestured for Robert to follow. The two men left the hall without a word, their departure noticed by more than just Tyrion. Whispers rippled through the northern lords, their unease palpable.

"Well," Tyrion said, swirling his wine, "that's interesting."

"More than a bit," Jaime agreed, his tone curious.

As the music played on, Tyrion noted the tension spreading through the room. The Northmen exchanged knowing glances, their voices hushed but urgent. Even the servants seemed wary, moving with deliberate caution as though afraid to disturb the air.

"They know something," Tyrion mused.

"They always do," Jaime replied. "The question is whether they'll share it."

The minutes dragged on, the atmosphere in the hall growing heavier. Then, at last, Robert returned. Jaime straightened instinctively, as did the other members of the king's retinue. The man who reentered the hall was not the jovial, drunken Robert they knew. This Robert was sober, his face drawn and serious, his usual bluster replaced by a cold determination.

He strode to the center of the room, raising his hand to silence the musicians. The hall fell quiet, save for the crackling of the hearth. All eyes turned to the king.

"My lords," Robert began, his voice carrying the weight of what he had just seen, "I have been to the dungeons. I have seen proof of something I thought was nothing more than children's tales. But it's real. The dead walk."

The hall erupted into murmurs, the northern lords exchanging grim nods. They did not laugh or scoff as southerners might have. Tyrion noticed how their faces darkened, as though some unspoken fear had been confirmed.

One of Robert's own lords, a grizzled knight in Baratheon colors, spoke up. "Your Grace, are you certain? Could it not be some trick, or madness?"

Robert slammed his fist down on the nearest table, silencing the doubters. "I know what I saw. The thing in the dungeons—it moves, but it's dead."

"What of the Wall, Your Grace?" another of his retainers asked. "The Night's Watch—"

"The Watch brought it here," Robert interrupted. "They've been guarding against these creatures for thousands of years. And now they're stirring again."

The northern lords murmured among themselves, their voices heavy with dread.

"Your Grace," Jaime said, his tone cautious, "if this is true, what do you intend to do?"

Robert turned to face him, his eyes burning with conviction. "Prepare. If these creatures are stirring, then we must be ready. The Wall won't hold forever, and when it falls, the dead will march south."

Tyrion sipped his wine, his mind racing. If the tales were true, then everything he thought he knew about the world was about to change. As the hall buzzed with nervous energy, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of excitement beneath his unease.

The game was about to get far more dangerous.

---

The days following King Robert's grim revelation were a whirlwind of activity within Winterfell. Ravens flew south to every major house, carrying urgent words of a threat that most would struggle to believe. Meanwhile, the northern lords began their slow march toward Winterfell, summoned by Eddard Stark's call for unity in the face of the unknown.

Tyrion Lannister found himself an observer to history, though the weight of it settled uncomfortably on his small shoulders.

---

The courtyard was alive with the clatter of hooves and the sharp cries of messengers. Riders departed Winterfell in every direction, bearing scrolls sealed with the direwolf sigil of House Stark. Snow fell in soft flurries, settling on the cobblestones and the fur-lined cloaks of those preparing for the journey.

Tyrion stood by the stables, a goblet of mulled wine warming his hands. Beside him, Jaime leaned casually against a wooden post, his golden armor gleaming despite the overcast sky.

"Think they'll believe it?" Tyrion asked, nodding toward the departing riders.

"Believe what?" Jaime asked with a smirk. "That the dead walk? Or that the King of the Andals has taken up an interest in snow and shadows?"

Tyrion chuckled, though there was little humor in it. "The first, mostly. But the second is amusing in its own right."

Jaime shrugged. "The south is full of fools, but even fools know fear. If Robert roars loud enough, some might listen."

"And our dear father?"

The Kingslayer's smirk faded into something more thoughtful. "He'll send a raven, perhaps. Words of support. Maybe even men. But only if it benefits him."

Tyrion drained his goblet and sighed. "Comforting."

---

As the days wore on, Winterfell's gates welcomed the banners of the North. The great houses arrived one by one, their retinues braving the cold and the snow to answer the call of their liege lord.

From his vantage point on the battlements, Tyrion watched as the Umbers thundered into the courtyard, their massive warhorses kicking up snow. The Karstarks followed soon after, their grim-faced lord dismounting with a stiffness that spoke of age and long winters. Then came the Manderlys, the weight of their sigil as prominent as that of their portly lord, who dismounted with the help of two attendants.

"They look none too pleased to be here," Tyrion remarked to no one in particular.

The Stark courtyard, usually a place of simple routines, was now a flurry of movement. Men unloaded supplies, tended to horses, and exchanged solemn greetings. The air was thick with tension, as though the very stones of Winterfell were bracing themselves for the weight of what was to come.

---

The Great Hall was once again the center of activity, though the mood was far from celebratory. The northern lords assembled around the high table, their faces grim and their voices low. King Robert sat at the head of the gathering, flanked by Eddard Stark and Ser Jaime Lannister, who stood watch with the stoic calm of a kingsguard.

Tyrion had taken his usual spot along the fringes, a goblet of wine in hand and his sharp eyes observing every detail.

"My lords," Robert began, his voice carrying the weight of command, "you have all heard the warnings. The Wall cannot hold forever, not against this. The Night's Watch is stretched thin. If the dead march south, we will need every sword to stand against them."

There was a murmur of agreement, though Tyrion noticed the uncertainty in some faces.

Lord Wyman Manderly leaned forward, his fingers steepled. "Your Grace, do we have proof of this... threat? The Wall has stood for thousands of years. Why should it fail now?"

Eddard Stark's expression darkened. "The Wall has never faced this before. I've seen the proof myself. The king has seen it as well."

The room fell silent as the weight of those words settled over the gathering.

"What proof, exactly?" asked Lord Karstark, his tone wary.

At that moment, the doors to the hall opened, and a messenger entered, his cloak dusted with snow. He whispered something to Eddard, who nodded gravely.

"We have proof," Ned said, rising to his feet. "Follow me."

---

Tyrion trailed behind the gathering as Eddard Stark led Robert Baratheon and a handful of lords down into Winterfell's dungeons. The air grew colder with each step, the torches casting flickering shadows on the rough stone walls.

Ser Jaime followed closely behind the king, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword.

When they reached the deepest level, Eddard stopped before a heavy iron door. He nodded to the guards, who pushed it open with a groan.

Inside, the Wight stood chained to the wall, its pallid flesh stretched tight over bone. Its eyes, an unnatural blue, glowed faintly in the dim light.

A collective gasp echoed through the chamber as the lords beheld the creature.

"What in the name of the Seven Hells is that?" one of Robert's southern retainers muttered, stepping back in alarm.

"The proof you wanted," Eddard said grimly.

Roose Bolton stepped closer, his expression unreadable. "This... is what you saw?"

"Aye" Eddard replied. "It was brought south of the Wall by the Free Folk. They claim it's a warning of what's to come."

The Wight stirred slightly, its chains clinking. The lords flinched, but Robert held his ground.

He turned back to the gathered lords, his face set in grim determination. "We have no time to waste. Winter is coming, and with it, the end of all we know. Send word to every corner of the realm. They must see this for themselves. They must understand what we face."

The lords nodded, their earlier skepticism replaced by fear and resolve.

---

Tyrion lingered at the edge of the group, his sharp mind turning over the implications of what he had just seen. For once, the sharp wit and biting words that came so easily to him felt insufficient.

The world was changing, and for the first time in his life, Tyrion Lannister wasn't sure where he fit in it.