Tyrion Lannister had seen many strange things in his life—dragons in dusty tomes, direwolves at feasts, kings too stupid to rule. But none were quite as strange, or as compelling, as the sight before him now.

  Jon Snow, once thought a mere bastard of Winterfell, sat quietly beside the fire with his child in his arms. A pale-haired infant, swaddled in wool and cooing softly. Beside Jon were the two creatures Tyrion could barely believe existed—Snowylocks and Ash, Children of the Forest.

  Lucky bastard, Tyrion thought, sipping his wine.

  It wasn’t just the wives—or husbands, he still wasn’t sure what to call them. It was everything. The mystery. The ancient blood. The raw power around Jon now. It clung to him like mist.

  Tyrion wandered over, quill in hand, parchment already unfurled. “Might I ask you both a few questions?” he said, addressing the Children of the Forest with a polite bow.

  Snowylocks tilted her head curiously. Ash blinked slowly, then nodded.

  Tyrion sat on a low stool beside them, already scribbling notes. “Your people are older than the Andals. Older than the First Men. Older, some say, than the Wall itself.”

  Snowylocks smiled, her sharp teeth gleaming. “We were born when the stars still wept light.”

  Ash added, “Before men named the winds.”

  Tyrion’s eyebrows lifted. “Poetic. But tell me—your traditions, your rites. How does your kind choose a leader?”

  Snowylocks answered with elegance, “The one who sings the old blood into new. The one who binds sun to stone, and rain to fire.”

  Tyrion blinked and wrote it all down, even if he didn’t understand a word of it.

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  He pressed gently, “And what about rituals? Magic? Any stories of old practices—sacrifice, perhaps?”

  Both Children glanced at Jon Snow, who gave them a subtle nod—just enough to tell them to skip the gory parts.

  Snowylocks offered a dreamy smile. “We plant trees with our dead. We sing to their roots so they may dream.”

  Tyrion scratched his head. “No bones, no knives?”

  Ash shook her head solemnly. “Only songs.”

  Tyrion hummed thoughtfully. “Disappointing. I was hoping for something scandalous.”

  Snowylocks chuckled, a dry whisper of wind through leaves. “You are scandal enough for many lifetimes, lion-born.”

  Tyrion grinned wide at that. “Flattery will get you everywhere. And may I ask about your marriage customs?”

  Ash glanced at Jon, then shrugged. “Our leader may take who they wish—wives, husbands, many or none. Love is not caged.”

  Tyrion nodded appreciatively. “Now that’s a custom I can toast to.”

  He tucked his quill away and rolled up the scroll. “I may just publish this in Oldtown. Become a maester, perhaps.”

  He paused. “No, celibacy would kill me faster than wildfire. Never mind.”

  As he stood to leave, Jon Snow looked up at him with a question in his eye.

  “Tyrion,” Jon said, his voice calm but curious, “do you know if there are any blood ties between the Starks and the Lannisters?”

  Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “None that I know of. Why?”

  Jon shifted slightly. “It’s just… Cersei. Jaime. Even her children. They feel familiar to me. Not by face, but by… presence.”

  Tyrion frowned. “Strange sentiment.”

  Jon nodded. “Yes. But it lingers.”

  The fire cracked behind them. The air hung heavy for a moment.

  “Well,” Tyrion said at last, brushing off his coat, “if you start growing golden hair, I’ll be very concerned. Until then, I’ll chalk it up to wildling wine and northern winds.”

  Just as he turned to leave, Jon shifted and extended his arms. “Here,” he said, gently passing the infant into Tyrion’s arms. “Would you like to hold him?”

  Tyrion blinked in surprise. “Me?”

  “Yes,” Jon said. “His name is Megumi.”

  Tyrion hesitated for a heartbeat, then took the child carefully into his hands. The baby stirred in his blanket but didn’t cry. His skin was soft, his body warm, and his breath gentle against Tyrion’s wrist.

  Tyrion looked down into Megumi’s peaceful face.

  “Just like any other baby,” Tyrion murmured. “Warm too.”

  He smiled to himself.

  “Strange world,” he whispered. “But maybe not so terrible.”

  Then, softly rocking the child, he stood for a while longer, forgetting the cold, the questions, and even the politics.

  Just a man, holding a child, beneath the hearthlight of a rebuilt home.