Patiently, Tyrion repeated his instructions, then clapped the septon on the shoulder and left him to his tasks. Ayrmidon's Engines of War is quite rare, and yours is the only complete copy I've ever seen." Chayle gaped at him, still half-asleep. Be gentle with the Valyrian scrolls, the parchment is very dry. See that you return the books to the shelves.
The young man jerked up, blinking, confused, the crystal of his order swinging wildly on its silver chain. A life of the Grand Maester Aethelmure, no wonder. He massaged some life back into them and limped heavily to the table where the septon was snoring softly, his head pillowed on an open book in front of him. His legs were stiff and sore as he eased down off the bench. Tyrion Lannister was not much a one for sleeping. He had been at it all night, but that was nothing new. His reading lamp was flickering, its oil all but gone, as dawn light leaked through the high windows. He covered a yawn with the back of his hand. When the direwolf howled again, Tyrion shut the heavy leatherbound cover on the book he was reading, a hundred-year-old discourse on the changing of the seasons by a long-dead maester. Something about the howling of a wolf took a man right out of his here and now and left him in a dark forest of the mind, running naked before the pack.
Tyrion Lannister looked up from his books and shivered, though the library was snug and warm. The sound hung over the castle like a flag of mourning. Somewhere in the great stone maze of Winterfell, a wolf howled.
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