Chapter 121 – The Cold Wind Has Risen
The matter of the sword was not truly an issue—or rather, it had never been more than one item among many on the table.
Ser Cleos could only nod.
"I understand. And… his sisters?"
At the mention of herself, Sansa Stark's heart began to pound violently, though she dared not show it on her face.
Tyrion glanced toward her, a flicker of genuine pity passing through his eyes.
Compared to the other demands, this was the one he was least willing—and least able—to concede.
"Until he releases my brother Jaime, unharmed," Tyrion said evenly,
"they will remain hostages in King's Landing."
"As for how they are treated—that will depend entirely on him."
Of course, Tyrion did not mention that at present they held only Sansa Stark.
Nor did he say how fervently he hoped they could find Arya—alive—before Robb Stark learned of her disappearance.
This was not how Cleos Frey had imagined things unfolding. Frustration weighed on him, but what could he do?
The one who decided everything sat high upon the Iron Throne. Cleos was nothing more than a messenger, a voice passed back and forth between powers far greater than himself.
At least Tyrion had not forgotten Willem and Tyrek. Four captives in exchange for two—Robb Stark would almost certainly accept that bargain.
And the return of Eddard Stark's remains sweetened it further.
"I will deliver your message faithfully, my lord," Cleos said, bowing once more before retreating into the crowd.
Tyrion absently brushed a twisted blade protruding from the throne's armrest.
The true business of the day was only just beginning.
"Vylarr," he called.
"At your command, my lord!"
The captain of the Lannister red cloaks stepped forward and dropped to one knee.
"There is no harm in Stark men escorting Lord Eddard's bones," Tyrion said calmly.
"But Lannisters are worth rather more."
"Cleos Frey is kin to both the Queen Regent and myself. You will personally escort him safely back to Riverrun."
Tyrion's voice remained unhurried, deliberately measured.
Vylarr did not immediately grasp the meaning. He responded as he always did.
"As you command. How many men shall I take?"
"All of them."
The captain froze.
Even he understood now.
But he dared not speak.
The command fell like frost across the hall, plunging the court into silence.
The clever said nothing.
The foolish followed their example.
"You need not concern yourself with the safety of the castle, the Queen Regent, or her children," Tyrion continued.
"The Kingsguard and the City Watch are more than sufficient."
"Vylarr—may the gods grant you swift success."
At this moment, the Hand's authority was no different from the king's.
As the commander assigned to protect Cersei and her children, Vylarr neither possessed the right nor the courage to refuse.
He could only obey.
At the council table, Podrick allowed himself a faint, knowing smile, though his eyes betrayed quiet calculation.
As whispers began to ripple through the hall, the herald stepped forward.
"The Hand of the King will now hear petitions. Those with matters to present, speak. All others—withdraw."
The sharp, ringing announcement echoed through the throne room.
Just as everyone assumed the session would end there, a tall, gaunt man in black pushed his way forward between the Redwyne twins.
"I have something to say!"
His voice was hard, coiled tight with restrained fury.
From the throne, Tyrion looked almost unsurprised—yet still exclaimed:
"Ser Alliser?"
As though encountering the drillmaster of the Night's Watch in the south were the greatest shock imaginable.
But Alliser Thorne, ignored for days on end, had no intention of letting it go.
"Don't play the fool!"
"You avoided me. You ignored me. You tossed me into a guest chamber like some lowborn servant and forgot me entirely!"
Thorne looked every inch the man he was: near fifty, tall and wiry, features sharp and weathered, eyes cold as steel, hands still strong, black hair streaked with gray.
Yet faced with his accusation, Tyrion looked—if anything—even more astonished than the Night's Watch man himself.
The cold wind had already begun to blow.
Then Tyrion put on a perfectly measured look of irritation.
"Is that so?!"
"Bronn, that won't do at all. Ser Alliser is an old friend of mine—we climbed the Wall together."
The Hand's words earned an eye-roll from the sellsword standing beside the steps of the throne, who chose to suffer the accusation in silence.
Not far away, Podrick—seated at the council table reserved for the realm's remaining great lords—very nearly laughed out loud.
But recalling his prior agreement with Alliser, he tapped the table and spoke clearly.
"Ser Alliser, don't be too harsh with us. These are troubled and demanding times. How many people seek an audience with His Grace King Joffrey each day?"
"The Hand of the King scarcely has a moment to spare—working late into the night, reviewing petitions, managing the realm. A slight delay is understandable."
"And since you stand here as a man of the Night's Watch, you must have urgent business. Please—speak."
The words were diplomatic, but Podrick flicked Alliser a warning glance.
Alliser Thorne understood perfectly well that everything Tyrion Lannister had done to him was petty retaliation.
Still, he straightened and said coldly, "The Lord Commander sent me to report directly to the king. The matter is grave—too grave to entrust to lesser men, and therefore—"
"Ahem."
Podrick coughed twice, eyes sharp with another warning.
Alliser swallowed his resentment. Few lords ever took him seriously, and Podrick—favored by the Hand himself—was hardly someone to offend. He forced himself to let it go.
On the throne, Tyrion glanced down at Podrick, smiled faintly—and pressed the knife in deeper.
"Oh? It isn't that His Grace refuses to see you. It's just that the king is currently occupied with his new crossbow."
"So what shall we do? Either you tell us—his humble servants—or you keep silent."
Handling Joffrey was far easier than handling Cersei.
The former required only subtle nudging; the latter demanded a heavy Myrish crossbow—preferably one that fired three bolts at once.
"…Very well," Alliser said bitterly. "Since I have no other choice."
"The reason for my presence is this: we discovered two rangers long missing."
"When we found them, they were already dead."
"But after their bodies were returned to the Wall, they rose again in the night."
"One of them killed Ser Jaremy Rykker. The other attempted to murder the Lord Commander himself."
His grave explanation was met with murmurs—and stifled laughter.
It sounded like a child's tale. Perhaps believable to a toddler. Certainly not to grown men of the court.
Fairy stories with the names swapped out would not suffice.
Tyrion Lannister, however, stroked the bristling stubble on his chin, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
He remembered a freezing night beneath the stars, standing atop the Wall beside Jon Snow and a massive white direwolf—staring into the empty darkness at the edge of the world.
Even then, he had felt something.
Something unseen.
Something cold and terrifying—like the northern wind itself.
A distant wolf's howl echoed in his memory, sending a shiver through him.
"Bear is unharmed, I trust?" Tyrion asked mildly, pulling himself back to the present.
After all, it had only been a wolf. A gust of wind. A forest.
Nothing more.
And he had rather liked old Jeor Mormont during his short stay at Castle Black.
"Yes."
"And your men… dealt with the, ah—dead men?"
"Yes."
"You're quite certain they're dead this time? Truly dead?"
Tyrion's tone was gentle—enough to make Bronn snort with laughter.
Alliser flushed with fury.
"They were dead! Pale, cold, blackened hands!"
"The bastard's wolf tore off Jaffrey's hand—I brought it with me!"
Sensing the situation sliding toward farce, Podrick rose sharply and brought his palm down on the table with a crisp crack.
"Enough, Ser Alliser! This is the throne room—you will not shout here!"
"Produce the thing and let everyone see it. I suspect they'll be… quite surprised."
Podrick Payne's sudden intervention startled everyone—including Tyrion.
All eyes turned toward them.
Yet even his authority could not halt the color rising in Alliser's face.
"It… rotted away while I waited for an audience. Silently. Crumbled to pieces."
"You ignored me for days. There's nothing left but bone!"
"So quickly?" Podrick frowned.
He remembered the hand clearly—already foul and decaying, but still recognizably… wrong.
The blackened fingers had looked like a curse spreading through dead flesh.
Alliser nodded.
Podrick exhaled slowly, then turned and bowed to Tyrion.
"My lord, I saw the hand myself. It was not like any ordinary corpse."
Tyrion thought again of that cold night wind.
"But Ser Alliser has brought us nothing," he replied stiffly.
Podrick shook his head.
"Even so, this deserves attention. The Night's Watch would not ride a thousand leagues to mock the king—nor would Lord Commander Mormont send his drillmaster south without cause."
"If it were not the Lord Commander's will, Ser Alliser would not be here."
Invoking Jeor Mormont changed things.
Tyrion felt it too—and shivered slightly on the Iron Throne.
"But even if it's true," he said, uneasy, "what can we do about it?"
"Send a hundred shovels north? Let Ser Alliser bury them again?"
Podrick had no real answer.
In the original stories—and at this point in time—doing more seemed… pointless.
After a silent sigh, he returned his thoughts to King's Landing.
"The dungeons are overflowing. The city has far too many mouths to feed."
Tyrion shared that headache.
He waved a hand dismissively.
"Very well. Give them all to Ser Alliser. Send them to the Wall—let them earn redemption."
"And spread word that the Wall has bread and turnips. They'll volunteer soon enough."
With that, his interest in the session evaporated. He had achieved his purpose.
The herald stepped forward again and declared the petitions closed. The court slowly dispersed.
As Podrick motioned for Alliser Thorne to wait outside, Tyrion descended from the throne and approached him.
"Come with me."
"Yes, my lord."
The hall emptied. Bronn followed behind Tyrion. Podrick walked at his side, retracing the quiet corridor.
"You—"
"The cold wind is rising," Podrick interrupted firmly.
"We must hold the Wall. Tyrion—if you trust me at all, take this seriously."
Tyrion halted, momentarily stunned.
"What's gotten into you today?"
Podrick's expression did not soften.
"Because I don't think this is a joke."
Tyrion bristled, recalling that night again.
"Then you know nothing of the Night's Watch," he snapped.
"They're no heroes from storybooks. They're thieves, whores, rapists, murderers—a gathering of scum. What faith should I place in such men?"
Podrick pressed his lips together and said nothing.
His silence was answer enough.
"…Fine. Fine," Tyrion muttered.
"Don't take me for a fool."
"I know the Wall needs men. Mormont told me himself. I promised help where I could."
"So when he's satisfied—tell him to thank me personally."
Tyrion waved the matter away and strode ahead.
But Podrick remained behind, brow still furrowed.
That wasn't what he meant.
Even if it were all true—even if the dead truly walked—what then?
Who would believe it?
Who would go?
He sighed and stopped.
"My lord… would you entrust this matter to me personally?"