---
Snowflakes drifted lazily outside the narrow window, carried by the northern wind, before settling against the frosted glass. Inside the chamber, the chill clung stubbornly to the stone walls. Tyrion Lannister rubbed his hands together and muttered irritably, scanning the corners of the room for a brazier. Finding none, he shook his head and turned toward his brother, leaning against the wall in chains.
"This place is quite nice," Tyrion said at last, his dry humor cutting through the silence. "Far better than King's Landing. At least here the air is clean. King's Landing is damp, foul, and reeks of piss and rot."
"Hm?"
Jaime Lannister brushed back the long golden hair that hung over his eyes, his chains rattling faintly with the movement. His lips curved into a wry smile as he regarded his brother with disbelief. "The wolf pups showed mercy, if you can call it that. They dragged me from the dungeons and tossed me into this tower. Renovated stone, fresh straw for the bed, a window with a view of falling snow—it almost feels like a gift."
He rose, iron shackles clinking as he shifted his gaunt frame. Though thinner and wearier than Tyrion remembered, Jaime's presence still carried the pride of a lion in captivity. His golden beard caught the faint light, and his long mane gleamed faintly, like a lion forced into a cage but not yet broken.
Then, with a laugh, he strode forward and bent to embrace Tyrion. "Brother," he said warmly, voice roughened by captivity, "it does me good to see you."
Tyrion endured the embrace for a moment before smirking. "If you think you're here because the Starks pitied you, you're wrong. You're in this tower because I gave Eddard Karstark thirty thousand gold dragons—plus the head of that wretch they call the Black Death. I've used Targaryen trinkets and Tyrell coin to serve Lannister pride."
"You've always been clever," Jaime said softly.
But then his eyes fell on the black robe his brother wore. The smile faded. His expression sharpened, his tone lowering. "Why are you dressed like that? Has Father forced you to take the black? To surrender your claim to Casterly Rock?"
Tyrion shrugged, feigning indifference though a shadow flickered across his face. "No. Our lord father has many ways to force obedience—almost without exception. But this… this was my choice."
He recounted the recent chaos of Westeros, piece by piece—the death of Joffrey, the maneuverings of Tywin, the shifting tides of alliances.
Outside, the day darkened as snow thickened, cloaking the lands in silence.
When Tyrion spoke of Joffrey's poisoning, Jaime's face twisted with pain. His thoughts leapt to Cersei. His sister must be suffering in ways he could scarcely imagine.
Dazed, his voice broke into the still air. "It truly wasn't you?"
Tyrion drew back, bristling. "Have you been locked in the dark so long your wits have gone dull? Do you think I'd kill your son? Do you think I'd commit kinslaying?"
His voice rose with fury, though he mastered himself after a moment. Lowering his tone, he whispered bitterly, "You think I didn't know Joffrey was yours and Cersei's? As a king, his cruelty surpassed even Aerys. He was a monster who humiliated his bride before the realm. He deserved to die. But not by my hand. Never by mine."
Jaime faltered. His chains rattled faintly as he exhaled. "I'm sorry."
The flood of revelations left him numb. After a long pause, he asked, "How is Father? And Cersei? And Uncle Kevan?"
"They thrive," Tyrion answered coldly. "The old lion plots as ever. He has sent ravens to the Vale, dispatched Kevan to Lys, gathered armies in King's Landing, and ordered Davos to prepare in the Westerlands. You should know what he intends. And he wants you back—to abandon the Kingsguard and inherit Casterly Rock."
Jaime lifted his head, meeting his brother's gaze with stubborn defiance. "Once you swear the white cloak, you wear it until death. That oath I will not break."
"Sansa Stark may have told you that," Tyrion replied with a snort, "but times change. The fearless Barristan Selmy was cast aside like an old cloak, expelled by your precious son. The oath is broken already. One precedent is enough to shatter centuries of tradition. If the realm can forget Barristan, it will forget you as well."
"No!" Jaime's voice was sharp. "I'd sooner rot here than let the Starks use me for their games. I will not return."
Tyrion arched a brow. "Rot here? They plan to keep you caged for twenty years, perhaps wed you to some nameless woman and breed heirs for Casterly Rock. You'd rather that fate?"
"I'd rather leap from this tower than betray my vows."
"And what of the King of the North?" Tyrion pressed, his tone growing colder. "Young Bran Stark. He remembers things. If he recalls too much, you may not be treated half as well. The Winterfell dungeons are colder than this tower. Cold enough to freeze a man to death."
"Let them come," Jaime declared. "I am not afraid to die."
"But think of Father," Tyrion said, voice suddenly soft. "Think of Cersei. Would you break their hearts so easily?"
Jaime gave a bitter laugh. "The Starks will never let me return to Casterly Rock. You know it as well as I do."
"Perhaps," Tyrion murmured, "but if Father's plan succeeds, the game changes entirely."
Jaime studied his brother, green eyes narrowing. At last he asked with a crooked smile, "So you've come to convince me. To give up the cloak and return to inherit the Rock?"
"No." Tyrion's tone hardened. His gaze sharpened with a different kind of determination. "I came for Tessa."
At the name, Jaime froze.
"Tessa," Tyrion repeated. "Was she truly a whore? What happened to her after that night?"
Two sets of eyes—one green, one black—locked.
Panic flickered in Jaime's. He turned aside, but not before Tyrion saw it: guilt, fear, and shame.
Tyrion's heart clenched. His voice rose. "She wasn't a whore, was she? You lied. You lied because Father commanded it!"
Jaime's jaw tightened. He could not meet his brother's eyes. At last, he muttered, "Father said she wanted your gold. A common girl chasing coin. You are a Lannister of Casterly Rock—why else would she seek you? To him, it was as good as whoredom. He thought you needed a lesson. He thought you should be grateful to me after…"
"Grateful?" Tyrion's voice cracked with rage.
He staggered back until his shoulders touched the cold door. Bronn stood beyond, watching silently, sympathy in his gaze.
"Grateful?" Tyrion spat. "Father threw my wife to the camp. To every soldier. And made me watch. Watch, Jaime! And you call that a lesson?"
His words trembled with fury, his twisted face now contorted with something darker than anger. "It disgusts me. It sickens me. Every night I see her face, every scream, every touch. Do you know what it is to live with that?"
Jaime's voice faltered. "I did not know he would do that. Gods, Tyrion, I swear it. You must believe me!"
"I believe you." Tyrion's lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl. His eyes gleamed with a hatred that chilled even Jaime. "But remember, brother—a Lannister always pays his debts. I will have my revenge. On him. On all of them. I swear it."
With that, he turned sharply and stormed out. The door slammed behind him, echoing like thunder through the stone halls.
"Tyrion!" Jaime cried after him, voice ragged.
But only silence answered. His brother's footsteps faded, swallowed by the tower. Outside, the snow had ceased, and the night settled like a shroud.
---
Bran Stark dreamed.
In his dream he was Summer, his direwolf, bounding along the riverbank. He saw his reflection rippling in the water and knew who he was. Above him, the Three-Eyed Raven circled, wings dark against the pale sky.
The bird came often now. Sometimes it soared overhead as Summer hunted. Sometimes it perched on branches, watching silently as Bran tasted warm flesh and blood through the wolf's senses.
And sometimes, it showed him visions.
He saw Robb, armored and astride his great horse, leading men across the coast, the King's guards gleaming at his side. He saw Grey Wind charging beside him, fangs bared. But then the sea boiled. Monstrous tentacles erupted from the waves, dragging horse, king, and direwolf into the depths while soldiers screamed.
"No!" Bran jolted awake, the same words echoing in his skull:
Come with me. Relying on worldly power, you cannot protect your family.
Beside his bed sat a thin boy with moss-green eyes. Jojen Reed studied him quietly. "Another nightmare?"
Bran nodded. "Robb. Grey Wind. The sea monster. And the raven. Always the raven. It tells me to follow, but I can't. I'm the King of the North. Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik—everyone depends on me. I must protect Rickon, protect Mother, find Arya. I cannot abandon them."
Jojen leaned closer, his voice calm but unyielding. "Do you remember my dream? The winged wolf, chained by grey stone? That wolf wears a heavy crown now. It is suffocating. Bran… you are that wolf. You are not meant to wear a crown. You are meant to fly. To go north. To find the greenseer."
Bran's heart clenched. He whispered, "But Father said north of the Wall is lost. Overrun by the Others. He said dreams are dangerous, that to chase them north is to lose yourself."
His hand strayed to the piece of dragonglass at his neck, recalling Eddard's words:
"This stone holds a magic—a spell called Magic Armor. You are a warg, Bran. You may sense the runes inside it, learn its power. If you must, seek Maester Luwin's counsel. But tell no one else. Such knowledge is perilous."
Bran remembered seeing Eddard conjure the spell, the shimmering film that turned aside a blade. He had tried it himself, but his young strength had faltered against it. Still, he believed. For he was no ordinary boy.
Jojen's voice drew him back. "I cannot tell you what choice to make. I can only tell you what I see."
Bran lay back, clutching the dragonglass. He closed his eyes, focusing on its cold weight. Slowly, the darkness filled with light.
Bright runes formed before him—intricate, flawless, glowing. They burned themselves into his mind.
The stone on his chest flared white. Cracks spread like spiderwebs. Then, with a faint shatter, the dragonglass turned to powder.
Miles away in Harrenhal, Eddard Stark jolted awake. He had felt it—the dragonglass breaking, the magic taking root.
Someone else had learned the spell.
His thoughts turned to the system's gift—the Magic Stele. With pure dragonglass, he could engrave runes, pass on magic to others. The supply was scarce, but the possibility was there. Magic was no longer a myth.
Perhaps, he thought, Westeros need not remain a land of low magic. Perhaps he could shape it into something greater.
But it would take time. Years. Decades.
Eddard sat in silence, mind alight with both hope and dread.
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