Embers and Worries in the Library
Dusk always came exceptionally early to Winterfell; leaden clouds hung low, pressing the last sliver of daylight into the western mountains.
When Jon Snow pushed open the oak door of the library, the peat fire in the hearth was burning lazily, sparks gently leaping against the stone-built fireplace, casting dappled shadows on the covers of the ancient books filling the room.
Tyrion Lannister was curled in an armchair by the window, toying with an empty wine goblet, the tip of his boot resting on a stool, an 'Annals of the North' spread across his lap.
Hearing footsteps, he lifted his eyelids, his golden eyes gleaming in the dim light: "Our King in the North has finally deigned to come down from the castle walls. I thought you'd be sleeping with those dragonglass arrows."
Jon walked to the fireplace, reaching out to gather his cloak—the woolen cloak still flecked with unmelted snow, which instantly evaporated into a fine mist by the fire.
"Arya and Illyrio are checking the traps in Snowblind Valley, Grey Worm and the Unsullied are reinforcing the gate," he paused, his gaze sweeping over the dusty iron candelabra on the bookshelf, "It's certainly quieter in here than outside."
"Quiet is a luxury before the storm." Tyrion poured himself a drink from the silver flagon on the low table, the amber liquid shimmering with tiny lights. "Care for a taste? Sweet wine from Meereen, brought by Daenerys's fleet. Gentler than northern ale, suitable for a night like this, when true words need to be spoken."
Jon took the goblet, his fingertips touching the cool silver.
The wine had a faint date flavor as it went down, but it couldn't dispel the heaviness in his chest.
He remembered what Bran had said yesterday in the Godswood— "You are Aegon Targaryen, a more legitimate heir to the iron throne than Daenerys." This sentence was like a piece of ice, melting and then freezing in his stomach.
"You're worried about Daenerys." Tyrion's voice suddenly cut in, with his usual perceptiveness. "Or rather, you're worried your identity will ruin this alliance."
Jon's fingers tightened around the goblet, the silver clinking softly against the stone tabletop.
"You know." It wasn't a question, but a statement—Varys's "little birds" were everywhere; Tyrion, as the Hand of the King, couldn't possibly not have heard the whispers.
But Tyrion laughed, draining the last of the wine from his cup: "After three years in the dungeons of King's Landing, my specialty is eavesdropping and guessing secrets. But this time it wasn't Varys who told me, it was your face—every time Daenerys mentions 'legitimacy,' you look like you've swallowed a lemon." He leaned over to add a piece of peat, and the flames crackled, leaping higher, illuminating the scars on his face. "Did you think I'd advise you to hide it? Or force you to swear fealty to Daenerys?"
Jon looked up at him, complex emotions swirling in his eyes.
He thought of Tywin Lannister's ruthlessness, of Cersei's venom, yet he saw something entirely different in the imp before him—a compassion not entirely extinguished, even after betrayal and bloodshed.
"My father, Tywin, always said, 'Lannisters fight for themselves.'" Tyrion's voice softened, his fingertip tracing the family sigil on the 'Annals of the North'. "But he never understood, even to his dying day, that some battles have nothing to do with a surname from the start. Like when I killed him, it wasn't because he was a Lannister, it was because he made me live like a monster." He looked at Jon, a self-deprecating smile in his golden eyes. "You see, we both have terrible fathers, and a relative who is more 'legitimate' than ourselves. The difference is, I solved my problem with a crossbow, and you have to protect all of Westeros with a sword."
II. Wind, Snow, and Consensus on the Walls
The two men were silent for a long time, only the occasional sound of the peat fire breaking the quiet.
Jon slowly finished the wine in his cup and stood up: "Want to walk on the castle walls? Perhaps it will clear your head, which is full of schemes and plots."
Tyrion sighed dramatically, pushing himself up from the armchair: "The northern wind can freeze a lion's mane into icicles, but—" He rattled his empty goblet, "accompanying the future King on a windy walk is certainly something worth writing into history books."
The wind on the castle walls was indeed fierce, whipping snow particles into their faces, stinging them.
The Night's Watch soldiers were patrolling along the battlements, their armor covered in a thin layer of snow, and they all stood at attention and saluted when they saw Jon.
The distant snowfield was vast and bleak, with only a few faint wolf howls coming from the direction of Snowblind Valley, torn to shreds by the wind.
"Sansa is taking inventory of the granaries," Jon said, pointing to the east tower, where a lone lamp glowed.
"She says even if Winterfell can't be held, the old and weak in the crypts must survive until spring."
"Your sister is more of a ruler than I imagined." Tyrion squinted, looking at the lamp. "Last I saw her was in King's Landing, that little girl hiding behind her father, but now she can calculate how much black bread each soldier needs every day." He paused, his tone becoming serious. "But food alone isn't enough. The Golden Company is still lurking in the Narrow Sea, and Cersei would love for us and the Others to destroy each other. Daenerys's dragons are brave, but Rhaegal's wings aren't fully recovered yet—we can't afford to lose."
Jon remembered Daenerys riding Drogon, the black dragon's shadow sweeping over Winterfell's towers, inspiring both awe and fear in the northern soldiers.
"I've already had Illyrio add three firewalls to the dragon pit," he said. "Bran says the Night King's Ice Dragon fears fire, so perhaps it will hold them off for a while."
"Perhaps." Tyrion repeated, his gaze cast towards the distant North, where the sky had already turned pitch black.
"But the Others don't fear fire, they don't fear swords, only dragonglass and valyrian steel. We only have enough dragonglass weapons to equip half of our soldiers, the rest…" He didn't finish, but Jon understood his meaning.
Silence fell once more.
Wind-driven snow settled on their shoulders, and Jon suddenly spoke: "If I weren't a Targaryen, would things be simpler?"
Tyrion turned to look at him, snow particles clinging to Jon's black hair, making him look older than his years.
"Simple things are often the most deadly," he said. "If I weren't the imp, perhaps I'd be a knight like Jaime, dying in some boring battle; if Daenerys didn't have dragons, she'd have been dry bones in the Red Waste long ago. Who we are doesn't matter, what matters is what we choose to do."
He pulled a rolled-up parchment from his cloak and handed it to Jon: "This is intelligence Varys just sent. Euron's fleet is lurking outside the Blackwater, seemingly waiting for the Others to break Winterfell before making a move. But Sansa has secretly sent envoys to Yara Greyjoy—your sister understands how to find allies better than you do."
Jon unrolled the parchment; the handwriting was elegant, Sansa's own.
He remembered playing hide-and-seek with his sister in the castle when they were children, Sansa always liked to hide behind the bookshelves in the library, humming softly with her doll.
It turned out that resilient seeds had already been sown during those soft times.
"Does Daenerys know?" he asked.
"Not yet." Tyrion shrugged. "I told Varys to keep it hidden for now. This isn't the time to argue over who should give orders. After we win this war, you can slowly discuss who the iron throne belongs to—or simply smash it."
Jon couldn't help but laugh, his first genuine laugh that day.
"You really don't care who is king?"
"I only care that there's wine to drink in taverns later, and warm beds in brothels," Tyrion winked, returning to his usual jocularity, "and that those self-important fools don't burn the world down. But—" He sobered, looking earnestly at Jon, "if you decide to sit on that seat, remember not to be like my father. Power is poison; only with a little mercy can you drink it for long."
III. The Goblet and the Vow by the Hearth
When they returned to the library, the peat fire had died down.
Tyrion replenished the fuel and poured them both more wine.
Jon sat in the chair opposite him, watching the flames flicker in the wine, suddenly thinking of Ygritte—the girl beyond the Wall who told him, "You know nothing, Jon Snow." If she were still alive, what would she think of this war?
"Thinking of your wildling girl?" Tyrion's voice broke his thoughts.
Jon looked up, a little surprised.
"Your eyes don't lie." Tyrion smiled. "I loved a whore, and killed her; I loved a queen, and was almost burned to death by her. Sometimes I think, how good it would be if I could go back to the cellars of Casterly Rock, just drinking and reading books." He swirled his goblet. "But one always has to fight for something, doesn't one? For those who are gone, for those who are still alive."
Jon thought of the children of Winterfell—yesterday in the training yard, a thinly dressed little boy was imitating Arya's moves with a wooden sword, his face red from the cold, full of earnestness.
"For them." He said softly, his gaze falling on the snow outside the window. "So they don't become slaves to the Others, as Bran said."
Tyrion raised his goblet, the amber wine glowing warmly in the firelight: "For the children who haven't had a chance to grow up yet, and for us damned adults."
Jon clinked his cup against Tyrion's, the soft sound of wine goblets colliding exceptionally clear in the silent library.
"I'll handle Daenerys's side." Jon suddenly said. "My identity… I won't tell anyone for now. Before we defeat the Night King, we need unity."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow: "Aren't you afraid she'll be angry when she finds out later? Dragons hold grudges."
"I'm afraid of disappointing her." Jon's voice was soft. "She trusts me, just as I trust her."
Tyrion looked at him, then suddenly laughed: "Tywin would be turning in his grave if he knew I was helping an alliance between a Targaryen and a Stark (or rather, half a Targaryen). But—" He took a sip of wine, "I like this feeling of playing outside the rules."
Just then, the library door was gently pushed open, and Arya peered in.
Her leather armor was dusted with snow, and she held a dragonglass short-blade, its edge still dripping water.
"Bran says the Others' vanguard will arrive at dawn tomorrow," her gaze swept over the wine goblets in their hands, a faint smile playing on her lips, "You two still have time to drink?"
Jon stood up and walked over to her: "Are all the traps set?"
"Yes." Arya nodded, her gaze softening slightly as it fell on Jon. "Illyrio is checking the wildfire barrels; he sent me to call you over to take a look."
Jon acknowledged her, then turned to Tyrion: "Coming with us?"
Tyrion waved his hand, curling back into the armchair: "My old bones won't get involved. You two go watch over those flammable and explosive things; I'll guard the wine flagon here—after all, if we win, we'll need celebratory wine, and if we lose… we'll need farewell wine too."
Jon knew he wanted to give him and Arya some space, so he said no more and followed Arya out of the library.
The moment the door closed, Tyrion raised his goblet and said softly to the empty room: "To all the damned things worth protecting."
The sparks in the fireplace gently leapt, reflecting his solitary figure, and the increasingly urgent wind and snow outside the window.
The night in Winterfell was still long, and they knew that when dawn arrived, a battle that would decide everyone's fate awaited them.
But at this moment, in this warm library, in the faint glow of the wine goblet, all fears and anxieties were temporarily suppressed, leaving only a silent vow—to fight for life.