A Warmth in the Snow, CH:09

The central bonfire crackled cheerfully, sending orange sparks up into the star-strewn night sky. The last echoes of Wyr's sermon still hung in the cool air, his words of hope and construction sinking into the respectful silence of the crowd. People began to disperse, moving slowly back to their tents or to the warmth of the large town hall, their voices a low, satisfied murmur. The night felt peaceful, filled with a newfound purpose.

Wyr remained by the fire, feeling its warmth on his face, an immense relief washing over him as the burden of being the center of attention lifted. He looked at Gehrman Sparrow, who stood in the shadows, unaffected by the fire's light or the crowd's emotions.

"You have done well."

Gehrman's flat voice broke the silence between them. The praise came without a smile, without any warmth in its tone. His face remained a mask of unreadable calm. Yet, somehow, the words felt deeply sincere. In Wyr's old world, praise was given with a hard slap on the back or a boisterous roar. This quiet, emotionless praise felt heavier, more real. Wyr appreciated that.

He never thought his life would turn so drastically. Two months ago, he was just another random Free Folk, a warrior living from day to day, whose destiny was most likely to freeze to death or end up as an undead at the hands of the Walkers. Now... now he was something else. Something that didn't even have a name in his old language. A 'Priest' of the Church of The Fool. He spoke words before a crowd, words he had only just learned himself, and they listened. They believed. It was the most terrifying and most exhilarating thing he had ever experienced.

He remembered with frightening clarity the day that transformation began, shortly after they had settled in the valley. Anderson had given him the thick 'bible,' its smooth leather feeling foreign and wrong in his calloused hands. "Gehrman wants you to study this," the blond man had said with his usual grin. "You were his first witness. You must be his voice."

Wyr had opened it, and just stared at the pages in cold frustration. They were just meaningless black scrawls, like the tracks of insects on snow. He could read the signs in nature—the break of a twig, a footprint in the mud, the shape of the clouds—but these small, intricate marks were completely incomprehensible. He had felt stupid, angry at himself and at the book.

Then, Gehrman had come. He had taken the book from Wyr's hands and simply said, "Look at me."

Wyr had looked up, and Gehrman had touched his forehead with the tip of his index finger.

It was like a silent bolt of lightning.

There was no pain. Just a blinding flash of white light inside his head, followed by a wave of information so massive, so overwhelming, it felt like a dam inside his mind had burst. Knowledge flooded him, not as words, but as pure concepts, as instant understanding.

The first thing that happened was that the black scrawls in the book suddenly arranged themselves. They stopped being random shapes and became words. He could read them. He didn't just recognize the letters; he understood the grammar, the sentence structure, the nuances of meaning. It was as if the written language, a lifelong mystery, had suddenly become his mother tongue.

But that was just the first drop in the flood. After that came other things. Images of worlds that were not his world, cities with gleaming metal towers, carriages that moved without being pulled by horses, light born from glass spheres. And then, came deeper, more dangerous knowledge.

The structure of Beyonder knowledge unfolded in his mind, not as a map, but as a feeling. Twenty-two pathways of power, each a different aspect of existence. He felt the echo of them all: the untamed wildness of the Hunter, the rigid order of the Arbiter, the peeping madness of the Spectator. And most clearly, most closely, was Gehrman's own path. He felt it as a deep, endless river of stars, a path that wound through mystery, divination—the Seer Pathway. The knowledge was so vast and terrifying it made the life-and-death struggles of his own world seem small and insignificant. It was a glimpse into the abyss, and it had changed him forever. Although he only knew their names and abilities up to sequence five.

When Gehrman removed his finger, Wyr was gasping, kneeling on the ground, his head throbbing not with pain, but with overwhelming wonder. His world had been expanded infinitely in a matter of seconds.

"Praise The Fool," Wyr replied in the present, the words coming to his lips as a habit, a reflex born of deep gratitude. He straightened up, feeling more of an equal to the man before him, not in power, but in understanding. "So, who will be the 'teacher' at that school, Gehrman?"

The idea of a 'school' was one of the concepts that had flowed into his mind during that touch. In Gehrman's world, children didn't just learn how to survive. They gathered in a building where an adult would teach them about words, numbers, the history of the world, natural sciences, even the art of drawing or making music. They were given the tools to understand the world, and then left free to find their own interests, to delve into their chosen field of knowledge. It was a concept so radical, so full of hope, that Wyr felt it was the greatest miracle of all. To give the children of the Free Folk a future where they could be more than just warriors or warriors' wives... that was the true foundation of their new world.

"I will take care of it," Gehrman said, pulling Wyr from his reverie. "She is a woman."

"She is smart and learned," Gehrman continued. "And has been through a lot."

"That's good," Wyr said, and he truly meant it. "Glad to hear it."

They stood in a comfortable silence for a few moments, accompanied only by the crackling of the fire. In the distance, Wyr could hear the occasional sound of a hammer as someone worked on their private home, even after dark. He could hear a child's laughter from within the town hall. They were the sounds of a community being born, a sound that would not die.

…

The night was cold, with a damp chill typical of the Riverlands that seemed to creep into the bones. The campfire crackled cheerfully, but its warmth felt like a weak lie in the face of the vast, silent darkness beyond its circle of light. Tyrion Lannister swirled his pewter cup, the red wine within looking black in the firelight. On his plate, a fat piece of venison still steamed. The royal procession, or King Robert's traveling menagerie, as Tyrion liked to call it, had stopped for the night, and the hustle and bustle of setting up tents and tethering horses had finally subsided into a weary murmur.

The journey North. Or, as Cersei had hissed, a pilgrimage to the land of sullen savages. Tyrion himself had a more mundane view. It was a long, boring, and uncomfortable journey, made tolerable only by an adequate supply of wine and good books.

However, for the past few weeks, there had been a point of interest, a confusing anomaly that had disrupted Tyrion's routine of wine and cynicism. That anomaly was now walking towards him, out of the shadows and into the firelight.

Prince Joffrey Baratheon, the little terror, the spoiled monster, the thorn in the side of the entire Seven Kingdoms, walked towards Tyrion's campfire, took his own plate, and sat on a tree stump opposite him. And he did it without a single word of mockery, without a contemptuous glare, without an arrogant command to his Guard, Sandor Clegane, to kick his dwarf uncle into the fire.

This, Tyrion decided, was more unsettling than any death threat.

For the past few days, this had become a strange pattern. Joffrey would seek him out at dinner. He would sit, eat, and talk. Talk. Not taunt, not belittle, not boast. He would discuss. Tyrion still couldn't get used to it. Every time, he braced himself for the inevitable insult, but it never came.

"I like to add some black pepper to the venison," Joffrey said, breaking the silence. He sprinkled a little black powder from a small leather pouch onto his meat. "It brings out the flavor more." He smiled. a real smile, without a hint of cruelty at the corners.

Tyrion stared at his nephew, trying to find the trap. Was this the beginning of an elaborate prank? He found nothing. He just saw a boy enjoying his meal. "Indeed," Tyrion replied, deciding to play it safe. "But for me, as long as there is wine, everything tastes good." He raised his cup in confirmation.

Joffrey chuckled, a light and amused sound, completely different from his usual mocking laugh. "Uncle, you'd better cut back on the drinking while on the road. I'm afraid you'll get thrown out of the carriage when we go over a rocky path."

The joke was so unexpected, so… normal, that Tyrion almost choked on his wine. It was the kind of jest Jaime might have made to him. It wasn't cruel. It was just a joke. Tyrion recovered quickly, his usual mask of cynicism falling back into place. "You underestimate me, nephew," he said in a playful tone. "It would take more than a hundred cups to create such an effect on your resilient uncle." He took a deep gulp of his wine, his eyes never leaving Joffrey.

"If only everyone had such resilience," Joffrey laughed, shaking his head.

This was strange. This was what had been happening between them for the past few days. Meaningless, polite conversations. In the past, Joffrey would only approach him to mock his height, spill his wine, or order Sandor to stand menacingly behind him. Never once would the boy have engaged him in a conversation about pepper or his alcohol tolerance. The change was so drastic it made Tyrion feel dizzy.

And it wasn't just his behavior towards Tyrion. Joffrey had also stopped tormenting his younger siblings. Tyrion had seen it himself yesterday. Tommen, who usually trembled in fear whenever Joffrey was within ten feet, had accidentally spilled water on the Prince's boots. Tyrion had braced himself for the inevitable explosion of rage, a slap, or a kick. Instead, Joffrey had just looked at the stain, then at his terrified younger brother, and said, "It's alright. Just get a cloth." Tommen had been so shocked he had just stood there, frozen, until Myrcella had quickly run to fetch a cloth. Tommen still had such deep-seated trauma in his head that he didn't know how to react to kindness. Tyrion didn't either.

"How much longer until we reach Winterfell, Uncle?" Joffrey asked, pulling Tyrion from his reverie. He cut his meat with neat, controlled movements.

Tyrion shrugged, feeling more comfortable on more factual footing. "From what I hear from the captain of the guard, it will be more than three weeks, if the weather holds."

"Quite a while." Joffrey sighed. "I hope it has many interesting things to offer to make this boring journey worthwhile." He paused, then added in a quieter tone, "To be honest, I'm also curious about the Wall. I hope to see it."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. The wine in his cup stopped halfway to his lips. The Wall. That was his own plan, his private reason for enduring this grueling journey. To stand at the top of the world and piss off the edge of civilization. It was the kind of melancholy, grand ambition suited to a well-read imp who had read too many books. It was not something he expected from Joffrey, whose ambitions were usually limited to torturing small animals and imagining new ways to make servants cry.

"You want to see that, Joffrey?" Tyrion asked, his voice careful, trying to hide his surprise.

Joffrey nodded, completely unaware of his uncle's inner turmoil. "In my mind, yes. I've read about it in Maester Pycelle's books. About Brandon the Builder and the Giants." He smiled faintly. "But Mother would surely protest and rant at length about the cold and the savages. So, it's just a wish for now."

'Cersei and all her suffocating protectiveness,' Tyrion snorted inwardly. The idea of Cersei letting her precious son travel to a remote place like the Wall was indeed laughable. Tyrion nodded, deciding to take it lightly. "You'd better do that in the future. I hear it's cold and completely unsuitable for spoiled children."

He expected an angry reaction, a flash of rage in Joffrey's eyes. Instead, Joffrey just smiled. "As someone who will lead the Seven Kingdoms next, of course I will do that in the future, Uncle. A king must know his kingdom." He drank his tea—tea, not wine, which was another change. "Besides, the Wall is one of the wonders of the world that still exists today. Legends say it was created to hold back the Others, right?"

Tyrion felt a small shiver. The Others. Dragons. Grumpkins and Snarks. The fantasies of his childhood. He had devoured those stories, dreaming of a world filled with magic and wonder, only to grow up into a disappointed cynic in a depressingly mundane world. "Legends like to exaggerate," Tyrion said, more to himself than to Joffrey. But a small part of him, the part that had never truly died, hoped he was wrong. If there were things like the Others somewhere out there, maybe this world would be a little more interesting.

"Either way," Joffrey stood up, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "I like those stories." He bowed slightly, a gesture so polite and unexpected it made Tyrion gape. "Thank you for talking with me, Uncle Tyrion. But I am sleepy and very much wish to fall asleep. Good night."

"Make sure your blankets keep you warm," Tyrion replied automatically, his mind spinning.

Joffrey smiled and walked away, leaving Tyrion alone with the crackling bonfire.

There was only the sound of the crackling fire in front of him. Tyrion stared into the flames, his cup forgotten in his hand. The boy had become strange. Very, very strange. He replayed the conversation, and every other conversation they'd had over the past few weeks. There was no cruelty. No excessive arrogance. Just a calm, a curiosity, and a terrifying level of politeness.

His mind, accustomed to dissecting motives and uncovering lies, found nothing. This wasn't a trick. Joffrey wasn't smart enough to maintain such a nuanced charade. This wasn't Cersei's doing either. Her methods were as subtle as a warhammer. Could the boy really have changed? Could this journey, away from the stuffy intrigues of King's Landing, have given him a new perspective?

No. That was too simple. Too hopeful. Tyrion Lannister didn't believe in sudden changes of heart, any more than he believed in the gods. People didn't change. They just became more adept at hiding their true nature.

So, what was the explanation? Was he sick? Had a maester been giving him some kind of calming draught? Or... or was there something else going on...