[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 37: TYRION IV (Locked)
Bowen Marsh dragged a scrap of grey wool across the sheepskin, wiping away a stray tally mark. The bargain was struck. The timber of the Haunted Forest would travel down to the wharves of Eastwatch, and the old stone keep at Queenscrown would hear the ring of hammers before the year turned. The Lord Steward stared at the scratches, his round face drawn tight with the burden of feeding a starving order on Southern promises.
Jeor Mormont pushed his empty tankard aside. The candlelight caught the deep, weather-beaten hollows of his face, casting his dark, deep-set eyes into heavy shadow.
“The tallies are cast, Lannister,” the Old Bear rumbled, his great bald head tilting forward. “You have the ironwood for the Prince’s shipyards. Bowen has the wheat to fill the western silos. We have traded the ancient pines and the high justice of the Gift for a few seasons of flour. Bread alone cannot fight the silence creeping through the Haunted Forest.”
Tyrion took a slow swallow of the thin ale, letting the sour taste clear the grease of the salt beef from his tongue. He looked toward the hearth, where compressed blocks of mountain peat and seasoned pine logs burned with a steady, dry heat.
Benjen Stark sat on a low wooden bench near the peat stack. The First Ranger kept his clear blue eyes fixed on the embers, his long, sharp face illuminated by the red glow. “My scouts find nothing but cold ash from the Gorge to the Milkwater,” Stark said, his voice flat. “The wildling villages are completely abandoned. They leave their bone scrapers, their heavy hides, and their winter stores. The seasonal raids along the Wall have stopped entirely. They have packed up their tribes and disappeared deep into the Frostfangs.”
“Mance Rayder calls them together,” Mormont growled. “He wore the black cloak. He knows the hidden paths. The tribes hate each other, and they hate the Watch. Rayder requires a terrible fear to make them march under one banner.”
From his post by the stone mantel, Ser Alliser Thorne let out a short, biting sneer. “The Lord Commander listens to the terrified weeping of the wildling wenches we drag from the thickets. They speak of snarks and grumpkins to save their necks from the rope. Rayder has a stolen steel sword and a horde of starving savages. The frost will kill them before they ever see a gate.”
Tyrion watched the flames. His mind drifted to the high towers of the Red Keep, where the air smelled of beeswax, sweet rushes, and dry cedar smoke. He remembered Archmaester Marwyn standing over a crumbling parchment map drawn by the early Lord Commanders, his blunt fingers tracing the ancient, jagged boundaries of the true North. Prince Joffrey had watched the map with steady, calculating green eyes. “The realm treats the Wall as a monument to a forgotten boundary, Uncle,” the Prince had said, his young voice carrying the hard weight of an anvil. “The Wall is a shield against the frost. If the frost wakes, the coppers in the treasury are worthless.”
Tyrion turned his clay cup on the oak boards. “Tell me of Ser Waymar Royce.”
Benjen Stark’s hand tightened on the wool of his thigh.
Ser Alliser Thorne barked a harsh laugh. “A spoiled brat from the Vale. He thought his fine velvet cloak and his shiny anointed knighthood would keep the wind from his bones. The frost does not care about a lord's bloodlines. Royce rode into the woods a turn of the moon past with two veteran men.”
“And only Gared returned,” Tyrion said, his mismatched eyes locking onto Thorne’s. “A veteran ranger of forty years. You told me the Royce boy rode a heavy warhorse and carried a longsword of fine castle-forged steel. Wildlings are desperate for good iron. If a raiding party had ambushed that patrol, that longsword would hang from a chieftain’s belt. Your spies beyond the Wall would have heard the boasts. The wildlings would have taken the horse for meat or labor. Instead, Gared ran until his wits shattered, leaving the steel and the mount behind. The old man ran from something far worse than wildling bone spears.”
Bowen Marsh rubbed his thumb against his stylus. “The cold madness takes men in the deep woods, my lord.”
From the dark corner near the peat stack, Maester Aemon rose. His bones made a faint, dry clicking sound beneath his heavy wool robes. He used no staff; his long, thin fingers traced the edge of the stone table with absolute familiarity until he stood beside Mormont’s great chair. His blind, milky eyes stared through the low smoke of the room.
“The Lannister boy reads the truth in the snow, Jeor,” Aemon said, his voice a soft, dry rasp like old parchment shifting in a drawer. “The archives at Oldtown hold the letters sent by the early maesters who were stationed at the Wall in the ages past. They knew what the First Men carved into the caves. They wrote of the winters that lasted multiple generations, when the sun went dark for decades upon decades and the dead walked under the spell. We mock the singers for their songs of the Long Night. We sit beneath a wall of solid ice seven hundred feet high and pretend it was built to keep out men in sheepskins. It was meant to keep out a threat that was far more ancient, more apocalyptic.”
The heavy silence smelled of guttering tallow and dry peat smoke.
Tyrion leaned forward, his elbows resting on the rough oak. He remembered Joffrey’s final directive, delivered in the heat of the royal armory. “The Small Council will never authorize war taxes for a ghost, Uncle. Give the Watch their grain. Tell the Old Bear the Iron Throne requires proof before it sends an army.”
“My nephew understands the scale of your shield, Lord Commander,” Tyrion said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “He has read the old accounts. If you need the Crown to protect the realm against a fantastical threat, the royal fleet under Aurane Waters will sail from the Blackwater. They will carry three thousand spears and iron-clad marines straight to the wharves of Eastwatch. The Crown will grant you the crushing might of the Iron Throne.”
Mormont’s chest rose in a great, heavy breath. “Send them now, Lannister. Send the spears before the high passes are closed by the snows.”
“The lords of the Small Council sit safe in the south,” Tyrion said ruthlessly. “They have grown fat and too comfortable with their petty politics to take any such claim seriously. They will never call the banners or impose war taxes based on the terrified flight of an old ranger or the ancient scrolls of a blind maester. They require absolute proof.”
“Proof?” Benjen Stark said, his hand dropping to his dagger hilt. “We have an empty forest. We have three rangers lost in the dark.”
“Physical proof, First Ranger,” Tyrion said, his voice as hard as the Lannisport steel he had promised them. “Broken bone spears will not move the lords of the south. The Prince requires evidence that cannot be denied by the fat men sitting upon the velvet cushions of the court.”
Tyrion held Mormont's dark gaze.
“Bring me a corpse that moves by magic. Bring me a hand that still claws at the air, its fingers twitching and seeking blood even when severed from the arm. Give me an undead thing I can throw upon the council table in King's Landing. Give me something that will make the Master of Laws wet his silk breeches with terror.”
He let the weight of the demand settle over the room.
“Give me that proof, Lord Commander, and Prince Joffrey will turn your three hundred miles of ice into a fortress of iron and spears. He will bring the wrath of the Iron Throne to the Haunted Forest. Until you place that flesh in my hands, the Crown’s hands are tied to the terms we have struck tonight. We trade strictly in wood, wheat, and the thieves from our cells.”
Mormont stared at him. The Old Bear's grey beard was locked tight, his breath coming in a long, slow whistle through his nose. He looked to Benjen Stark. The First Ranger's sharp face had gone the color of old milk. Stark gave a single, slow nod—the silent acceptance of the task laid upon his scouts.
The Great Ranging was no longer a simple scout mission to count the fires of Mance Rayder. Tyrion saw the grim realization in their eyes. The old crows knew the price of their grain. They had secured their steel and their food. To keep the ships coming from the south, they must march into the deep, frozen dark of the Haunted Forest and hunt for a monster.
Tyrion rose from his black oak chair. His short, twisted legs ached from the hours of sitting in the drafty solar. He bowed his head to the Lord Commander, his movement small and deliberate.
“The wind is rising, my lords,” Tyrion said softly. He turned his back on the grey meat and the sputtering candles. “I believe I shall take my wine to the top of the Wall. The view from the edge of the world is said to be magnificent before the winter arrives.”
~~~