The snowflakes fell in a relentless, silent curtain, accumulating on the jagged towers of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. During the brief, pale hours of daylight, the sun would melt the uppermost layer into translucent droplets, only for the biting night wind to flash-freeze them into jagged icicles. Day after day, the frost spread until the eaves and windows were encased in sparkling, crystalline armor.
"Where could Tysha be?"
Tyrion Lannister gazed out of a narrow window in the Sea Tower, his mismatched eyes one coal-black, one green fixed on the horizon. In the distance, the Bay of Seals and the peninsula of Storr's Hold were swallowed by a vast expanse of white. It was impossible to tell where the frozen land ended and the churning, slush-heavy sea began. Everything was a monochrome of deathly white and slate grey.
At the pier below, several black-sailed galleys of the Watch rose and fell on the dark green swells. A merchant cog from Pentos, its hull battered by the Shivering Sea, cut through the white foam as it was guided into the harbor by the Watch's stewards.
Before the true winter had tightened its grip, the Free Folk settled in the Gift had attempted a final harvest. But the "Wizard's Winter" had come too fast. The crops had shriveled in the soil, leaving thousands of mouths hungry. Lord Commander Jon Snow had issued a desperate order: the fleet at Eastwatch was to purchase grain from Essos at any price.
Gold was plentiful in the North's coffers, thanks to the indemnities squeezed from the Lannisters and the Tullys but grain was becoming the only currency that mattered. Merchants from Pentos and Braavos, driven by a greed that outweighed their fear of storms, had begun to run the blockade of ice to reach the Wall.
Tyrion, once the Master of Coin, had been sent here to ensure the Watch wasn't fleeced. He sighed, rubbing his chilled hands. Surrounded by "Crows," wildlings, and the handful of Lannister men who had followed him into exile, he felt like a ghost in a frozen world.
"Little Devil!"
Bronn's shout drifted up from the base of the tower, sounding even more irritable than the wind. "Carter Pyke wants you down here. The merchant is losing his patience!"
"I'm coming," Tyrion muttered. He clumsily descended the wooden ladder. As he reached the bottom, he found Bronn huddled in a heavy, soot-stained cloak. The sellsword-turned-ranger looked shabbier than he ever had at the Inn at the Crossroads, his nose a permanent shade of red.
"You're in high spirits, aren't you? Climbing towers to look at the nothingness," Bronn grumbled, pouting. "What? Did the frost turn into a tavern full of girls while I wasn't looking?"
Tyrion pushed open the heavy oak door, and a blast of snow-laden wind hit him, making him shiver to his marrow. He turned back with a wry grin. "If there were girls in this storm, Bronn, they'd be made of ice. Fine for looking, but they'd break your heart and other parts if you tried to use them. What's the point?"
"Don't even joke about it," Bronn spat. "I went to the local house last night. Those Crows are too fast. By the time I got there, only two women were left. One was old enough to be my mother."
"And the other?" Tyrion tightened his hood and stepped into the gale.
"The other could have been the first one's mother," the mercenary mumbled, following Tyrion into the white-out.
"By the Drowned God, you're greedier than a pirate!"
Carter Pyke's roar echoed through the commander's solar. "If I hadn't taken the black, I'd have taken your head with an axe and hung you from the mast to feed the gulls!"
The merchant, a plump man in silk-lined furs named Odrero, looked unfazed. He toyed with the rings on his fat fingers. "Commander, this isn't summer. The waves in the Shivering Sea are higher than your Wall. The risk alone warrants the price."
"You motherless cur!" Pyke reached for his belt, but two Watch brothers held him back. Killing an Essos merchant was a hanging offense, even for a commander.
Tyrion kicked the door shut behind him, shaking the snow from his shoulders. He climbed onto a chair and offered a disarming smile. "The waves are large, Odrero, but five times the market price in Braavos? That isn't a premium; it's a ransom."
Odrero sniffed. "Grain is scarce. Slaver's Bay is at war. A girl named Daenerys Targaryen has broken the chains of Astapor and Meereen with three dragons and an army of eunuchs. The masters of the East are desperate. They'd pay double what I'm asking here."
Tyrion's eyebrows shot up at the mention of the Dragon Queen, but he kept his focus. "But Slaver's Bay is months away. Eastwatch has something the Braavosi Arsenal needs right now: heart-oak and ancient pine from the Haunted Forest. Timber that doesn't rot. Lower your price by half, and I'll sell you the rights to fill your hold with our timber at a pittance. You'll make your profit twice over when you reach the shipyards of the West."
Odrero paused, calculating. High-quality Northern timber was worth its weight in silver in the treeless islands of Braavos. After a few minutes, he nodded. "Agreed. As long as the wood is sound."
"Lord Tyrion?" Odrero suddenly leaned forward, recognizing the dwarf. "I didn't realize... how did a Lannister end up in a hole like this?"
"I took the black, Odrero. My family's business is no longer mine."
"Then you haven't heard?" Odrero asked, his voice dropping. "King's Landing has fallen to Stannis Baratheon. The Riverlands have invaded the West. They say Casterly Rock is under siege by the Blackfish."
Tyrion froze. A flicker of dark schadenfreude passed through his eyes. His father's capital lost. His ancestral home burning.
"And the King? My sister?"
"Tommen and Cersei are in Goldengrove, under the protection of the Tyrells," Odrero replied. "Lord Tywin's location is unknown, but he is said to be leading an army to Crakehall."
"Good," Tyrion said, a cold smile touching his lips. "I'm a brother of the Watch. What happens to the Lions doesn't concern me."
Carter Pyke clapped Tyrion on the shoulder with a force that nearly sent him off the chair. "Good man! I thought you were just a pampered brat, Lannister. But you handle a merchant like an Ironborn handles a longship. I apologize for my earlier doubts."
As the timber was being loaded by a team of giants, much to the terror of the Essos sailors Tyrion stood on the deck of Odrero's cog. He had been learning the Old Tongue in secret and watched the giants with a scholar's intensity.
Odrero prepared to depart, the north wind finally favoring a southern run. "Lord Tyrion, I will bring more grain if the price stays true."
"Bring news as well," Tyrion whispered. "The ravens here are... selective."
As he prepared to disembark, Tyrion's gaze drifted north, toward the shoreline where the Wall met the sea. He frowned, reaching out his hand. "Bronn. Give me the glass."
"What now?" Bronn handed over the brass spyglass.
Tyrion adjusted the lens. His heart hammered against his ribs. Through the swirling snow, the white coastline was no longer empty. A group of figures stood on the ice blue-eyed, grey-skinned, and moving with a terrifying, mindless synchronicity. One by one, they walked toward the edge of the ice, falling into the black water with a silent splash.
"Phew," Tyrion exhaled, his breath a thick cloud. "The Watch isn't ready."
"Lord Tyrion," Odrero asked, his face turning pale as he followed Tyrion's gaze. "What are those things?"
"They are the dead," Tyrion said, his voice as cold as the sea. "The servants of the Others. The greatest threat Westeros will ever face. And they're learning how to swim."
[Strategic Intelligence: Lannister Court in Exile (Goldengrove).]
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