Although he did not yet understand why Tyrion Lannister's fate had taken such an abrupt and twisted turn, Eddard Karstark still sent an envoy to invite the Imp to his tent for a private discussion.
As a son-in-law of House Stark and a sworn bannerman to Robb's memory, Eddard could not openly raise his hand against the Night's Watch, nor against the Ravens Tyrion had recruited for his journey. The honor of the Starks—and his own—demanded restraint. Reputation still mattered, and honor was a coin he would not cheaply spend.
Only beasts such as Amory Lorch, who had not even spared the life of a three-year-old girl, or monsters like Gregor Clegane, whose cruelty had become legend, would stoop so low as to assail the black-cloaked brotherhood of the Wall. That was not Karstark's way.
Yet neither would he stand idle and allow Tywin Lannister's schemes to go unchallenged. If he could not strike openly, then he would sow trouble where he could. And in this case, the key lay before him: Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, with whom he shared the briefest of histories.
---
Wine and Words
"Eddard," Tyrion said with a sigh after retelling his misadventures in King's Landing. He set his wine cup down with deliberate care, his stubby fingers tapping the stem as though each tap anchored his thoughts. "You see how people's prejudice against me persists. I had no motive to murder my nephew, yet they cheer to see the dwarf's head roll. It is always easier to blame the half-man than to look for truth."
He lifted his glass again, but only took the smallest sip. Tyrion Lannister knew better than to dull his wits among the Starks' allies. A single careless swallow could cost him more than his pride.
Eddard studied him, the firelight dancing across his solemn face. "Indeed. Men are quick to scorn what is unlike them. But don't call me lord, Tyrion. You are a sworn brother of the Night's Watch now. Call me Eddard."
With a wave of his hand, he summoned the maid—one borrowed from Sansa's service. She stepped forward gracefully and refilled Tyrion's glass, though the dwarf had not asked for more.
Tyrion's brow arched in amusement. A clever trap, Karstark. If the cup is always full, eventually a man must drink. Yet he did not refuse. He lifted the replenished wine and nodded. "Then I shall be impolite, Eddard."
"Good. Another drink, then."
Karstark's face flushed as he downed his own cup in one swallow. He set it down with a heavy thud and leaned forward, his tone softening with feigned casualness. "Once, at the Seven Stars Eel tavern in White Harbor, I met a wandering minstrel. For the price of a few silver stags, he told me a story—a tale of love. And strangely enough, it involved a man named Tyrion."
Tyrion's lips twitched. His heart, usually so guarded, gave the faintest, most treacherous skip. "A tale of love… and of a Tyrion? I admit, you've piqued my interest. Go on."
Eddard smiled thinly, motioning for the maid to pour again, and began.
---
The Tale of the Farmer's Daughter
"It begins with a girl of fourteen," Karstark said gravely. "Her father, a poor farmer, had worked himself to death. Fever took him, leaving her alone and desperate. Yet misfortune seldom travels alone. One day, while the girl struggled to earn her bread upon the streets, two beasts cornered her and tore her garments from her body."
Tyrion stiffened, though he masked it with a long swallow of wine. The beginning was too familiar, painfully so.
"But fate took a turn," Eddard continued. "Two young nobles rode past—brothers, so it seemed. The elder was strong and bold, driving the ruffians off with sword in hand. The younger, a Tyrion, was gentle, kind. He comforted the girl, gave her warmth, and she, in her youth and gratitude, gave him love. They wed, drunk on wine and passion, before a tipsy septon."
He paused, his eyes never leaving Tyrion.
"The pair lived then in a small cottage by the sea. The walls were crooked, the floor earthen, the roof leaking, yet they were happy. Happier perhaps than many lords in their keeps."
Tyrion's throat tightened. Gods…
"But happiness is short-lived," Eddard said with a sigh. "For what lord would permit such a union? A noble with a farmer's daughter? Impossible. Soon enough, the local lord found her. He forced her to confess she was a whore, then had his guards take her in turns. One silver stag per man, or perhaps a golden dragon. The detail escapes me—it was only a story, after all. Is it not, Tyrion?"
His smile returned as he raised his cup. "Drink."
Tyrion obeyed numbly. The wine dripped from the corner of his lips, staining the satin of his tunic. He did not notice.
The tale was not a tale. It was his past laid bare—his first wife, Tessa, whom Jaime had claimed was a hired whore, a cruel jest arranged by their father. But this version… this version twisted the knife differently. Here she was no whore, but a victim, forced to recant under torment.
His mind raced. How could Karstark know? Even Bronn knows nothing of the cottage…
Casually, though his voice cracked, Tyrion asked, "Did this minstrel, by chance, speak the girl's name?"
Eddard pretended to search his memory, tapping his temple. "Te… Te… ah, yes. Tessa."
The goblet shook in Tyrion's hand. His breath caught. "Tessa…"
Eddard's eyes glinted. "You've heard the tale, then?"
"Perhaps… a faint impression," Tyrion muttered, rising abruptly. "Forgive me, Eddard. I find myself tired. And perhaps… more drunk than I intended. May I take my leave?"
Karstark gestured permissively, his face unreadable. "Of course. May your dreams be kind."
---
Seeds of Doubt
Tyrion stumbled toward the tent flap, his mind a storm. Lies and truth swirled indistinguishable.
If the tale is false, then Karstark seeks only to drive a wedge between me and Father. But how could he know the details? If true, then Father and Jaime conspired to deceive me. Jaime? No… never Jaime. My brother loves me. He would not… he could not…
He stopped, turned back with a fawning smile to mask his turmoil. "Eddard, one small request. Might I trouble you for a letter of introduction? My road north passes Winterfell. It would please me greatly to see my brother Jaime, if only briefly."
Karstark's lips curled. Hooked. "It shall be delivered to you on the morrow, before you depart."
"My thanks."
"You are welcome."
Tyrion bowed and withdrew, Bronn at his side.
Karstark watched them go, the firelight catching the satisfaction on his face. He had no need to know Tywin's plans in detail. This single seed of doubt would be enough. Once Tyrion questioned Jaime, the truth—or some bitter shard of it—would emerge.
And when brother turned upon brother, the mighty House of Lannister would bleed.
Karstark raised his cup, drained it, and spoke with quiet command: "Tell the men we ride south along the King's Road tomorrow. We do not return to Twin Rivers."
Kalas Snow bowed and departed with the guards. Outside, horses neighed restlessly, stamping hooves into the frozen earth.
---
Storm's End
Far to the south, within the storm-lashed walls of Storm's End, another fire burned.
"Ser Davos," said Stannis Baratheon, seated in plain wool, his stern face half-lit by torchlight. "When you returned from the Reach, I commanded the maester to teach you your letters. Now prove the lesson. Read the letter upon the table."
Davos Seaworth stepped forward, his sea-worn hands trembling slightly as he unfolded the parchment. His eyes scanned the lines—and widened.
"Joffrey… Joffrey is dead?"
Stannis's jaw tightened, though his voice was calm. "The usurper is gone, just as the flames foretold. Surely they will send for me now."
From her place at the table, Melisandre's voice coiled like smoke. "They will not. The boy had a brother."
Stannis's eyes narrowed. "Tommen."
"Yes. They will crown Tommen Baratheon and cloak their rule in a child's name."
"This is folly!" Stannis's fist crashed upon the table. "The boy is no true Baratheon. He is his mother's sin, his uncle's bastard. A monster born of incest! Westeros needs a man, not a child."
Melisandre leaned forward, her red eyes glimmering. "Then offer Robert's bastard to the flames. Sacrifice Edric Storm, and I shall wake the stone dragon sleeping beneath Dragonstone. With it, King's Landing shall fall before you."
Stannis faltered. The temptation was plain in his eyes.
"Your Grace!" Davos cut in desperately, producing a second letter from his breast. "You have twenty thousand men still loyal beyond these walls. The fleet upon Dragonstone waits for your word. Allies send envoys even now. Must we turn to blood and shadow?"
"Allies?" Stannis's gaze was sharp.
Davos broke the seal and read aloud:
> "To His Grace, Stannis of House Baratheon. Though we have not met, your name is thunder in the North. Men call you just and steadfast. I write not for crowns, but for survival. North of the Wall, we have seen the Others—the White Walkers—and their wights. They grow in number daily. Fire and dragonglass are their bane, and Dragonstone holds both. Lend us ships laden with dragonglass, and the living may yet endure. —The Queen Regent of the Trident."
Stannis sneered. "Queen Regent? Robb Stark is dead, yet his people would sooner crown two more monarchs than bend the knee to me."
"They do not seek the Iron Throne, Your Grace," Davos urged. "Only to guard their lands. Stand with them. Show them true royal strength. Better that than sacrifice a child."
Stannis's face darkened. Rope-like cords stood out upon his neck. Long moments passed before he spoke.
"Very well. Ser Davos, you will write the reply."
---
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