Tyrion

           SomewhereinthegreatstonemazeofWinterfell,awolfhowled.Thesoundhungoverthecastlelikeaflagofmourning.

           TyrionLannisterlookedupfromhisbooksandshivered,thoughthelibrarywassnugandwarm.Somethingaboutthehowlingofawolftookamanrightoutofhishereandnowandlefthiminadarkforestofthemind,runningnakedbeforethepack.

           Whenthedirewolfhowledagain,Tyrionshuttheheavyleatherboundcoveronthebookhewasreading,ahundred-year-olddiscourseonthechangingoftheseasonsbyalong-deadmaester.Hecoveredayawnwiththebackofhishand.Hisreadinglampwasflickering,itsoilallbutgone,asdawnlightleakedthroughthehighwindows.Hehadbeenatitallnight,butthatwasnothingnew.TyrionLannisterwasnotmuchaoneforsleeping.

           Hislegswerestiffandsoreasheeaseddownoffthebench.Hemassagedsomelifebackintothemandlimpedheavilytothetablewheretheseptonwassnoringsoftly,hisheadpillowedonanopenbookinfrontofhim.Tyrionglancedatthetitle.AlifeoftheGrandMaesterAethelmure,nowonder."Chayle,"hesaidsoftly.Theyoungmanjerkedup,blinking,confused,thecrystalofhisorderswingingwildlyonitssilverchain."I’mofftobreakmyfast.Seethatyoureturnthebookstotheshelves.BegentlewiththeValyrianscrolls,theparchmentisverydry.Ayrmidon’sEnginesofWarisquiterare,andyoursistheonlycompletecopyI’veeverseen."Chaylegapedathim,stillhalf-asleep.

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