Chapter 18

Clark gripped the edge of the well, panting, before pulling himself over. He landed hard on the stone floor. The well was higher than he anticipated and he laid on his back in the darkness.

"Fuck," he breathed quietly. More than a month beyond the Wall had taught him never to speak loudly when one is alone and in the dark. Who knew what lurked in the shadows?

However, the seconds passed, turning into a minute and his tumble into the Nightfort didn't seem to bring any unwelcomed company. He was also lucky that he didn't land on anything sharp on the floor. He should have checked before he launched himself over.

But impatience and hunger had plagued him since he started back south. He'd spent a whole day on the other side of the Wall, trying to find the hidden door that Sam and Gilly had used in the third season. The one that Sam had picked up in a book. He thought that he had found the same book in the Castle Black library, but the instructions were practically nonexistent. Only that there was a door. And that it was hidden.

Very well too, unsurprisingly.

About a half hour ago, Clark was seriously considering just climbing the fucking thing. It wasn't rational, but he was getting desperate and weighing his options. Then as the sun set and stopped reflecting so brightly on the Wall, he noticed a ridge in the ice that seemed a little too neat.

That led to the tunnel and to him crawling out of the well with just a hint more grace than Sam did. Relief flooded through him as he caught his breath. He was south of the Wall. He was safe…relatively speaking.

A growling echoed in the small room and Clark gently massaged his stomach. He had some success hunting and trapping beyond the Wall, but it took time and energy and what he caught was usually just barely enough to make up for the strength lost.

He had lost weight on this excursion, no doubt about it.

Tired of laying down, he forced himself up into a sitting position, leaning against the stone well. Reaching into his rucksack, he pulled the last of his smoked venison. A stag from four nights ago had basically saved his life and provided him enough food to make it back. The supplies that he took from Craster's were running low when he met Karsi and her people…

Chewing the meat slowly, he paused, just tasting it, before swallowing. Afterwards he only wanted to gorge the rest of it, but he knew he couldn't. If he ate the rest, he might be forced to travel east to Castle Black to beg for rations. And that would raise a bunch of questions that he didn't want to answer. He needed to get south quietly.

So, hating himself, he put the rest of the venison away and took stock of his surroundings. There was a little moonlight, which was more than enough for his eyes. The room was big, with a few firepits. Chains hung on the walls. Clark didn't know enough about castles or forts to guess which room this was, despite having lived in Winterfell.

A part of him thought he should explore the rest of the castle and find the best room to hide and rest in. However, he remained seated. If Meera and Jojen Reed decided on this room for their night in the Nightfort, then it was good enough for him too.

Trying to ignore the fact that they were a group and had direwolves protecting them as well, Clark removed his rucksack and sighed, massaging his shoulders. He was relieved to be indoors again. Even if it was in the Nightfort, the oldest castle on the Wall, a cursed place, a ruined collection of stones and horrors…

Most of the stories he knew about this place he had read in the Winterfell library. He didn't remember them from his old world. The deserters buried alive in the Wall…the ranger, 'Mad Axe', who killed several of his black brothers…Danny Flint…

The one story that he did remember made him shudder as he gazed upon the chains, the moonlight glinting off them. Of the Rat King and the gods that cursed him so. Clark may not have believed in the Christian God back in Maine, but he did believe in the ones here. All except for the Seven actually made their presence known in the show.

This belief bled into his actions beyond the Wall. He approached Craster's Keep with his bow out and down. An arrow rested, waiting to be nocked. The darkness of the Nightfort vanished before him as the firelight from within Craster's grew greater…

There were a few of the wives about as Clark approached the Keep. They all stopped and stared at him, at his bow. He scanned them, but none carried a weapon. The younger ones glanced back at the house, fearful of Craster's reaction. The older wives just stared blankly at him. Not fearful, not perplexed. They just waited for their man to come out and deal with this stranger. Living with Craster must be a deadening experience.

He scanned as well for a young Gilly, but couldn't find her. That was a small relief. He didn't want her to see this .

Eventually one of the older wives whispered to a younger one, who ran into the keep. All outside just waited. No one said a word.

His ears perked up at a muffled raised voice. Male, a little drunk and very familiar. A voice he really didn't want to have to hear in the flesh…

A cup was thrown across the room, followed by footsteps. The door banged open and Craster stumbled through, a small axe in his hand. He narrowed in on Clark quickly though, focus flooding quickly back into his beady eyes.

"Yeh no crow," he called.

Clark fought a smile. He looked exactly the same.

Craster spat on the ground. "If yeh be looking for shelter tonight, yeh won't fucking find it here. This is my home. My keep. My wives. My stores. They're not for the likes of bastard southerners such as ye. Now piss off 'fore I cut yeh down for pigfeed."

The snow fell lightly. Clark felt a little tension leave his shoulders. No invitation met no guest rights. If the gods in this world hated those who killed their guests, he imagined they had similar feelings to guest who kill their hosts. He was free now to act, at least he hoped.

He ran his eyes over the women again. Still no weapons.

"Take ye fucking eyes off my wives and daughters," Craster snarled. Clark snapped back to him. The axe was raised, pointed straight at him. "Get off my land."

"How many sons do you have?"

A tremor rippled through the women, while Craster froze, his beady eyes boring into his. Clark blinked freely, trying to keep his fear down, his arm relaxed…

"Have you even kept count?" he prodded.

Craster's frozen stare morphed slowly into a smile of sickening satisfaction.

"I have many sons," he said, his voice low and prideful. "My loins are strong. More so than most younger men. The men today are weak. They're not even men."

He raised his arms.

"Why else do you think I keep a swarm of wives? One cunt alone wouldn't cut it. I'm a true man."

Clark sighed. "So you don't know how many boys you've given to the White Walkers?"

Craster dropped his smile quickly, but the snarl didn't return. Instead there was a calm look on his face that…well, could only be described as reverent.

"I'm a godly man, stranger. I give all I have to the old gods. My sons…they're strong now. And I'm their sire."

He began to laugh.

"I'm the father of gods."

Clark raised his bow and shot immediately. The arrow hit right below the heart and Craster fell, wheezing.

Screams came from a few younger girls, but they were quickly stifled by the elders. Nobody moved. Not to attack Clark with his bow still outstretched. Not to aid Craster still writhing on the ground.

Clark lowered his bow and walked forward. As he came over Craster, the old man locked eyes with him. Judging by the wheezes, he guessed that his lung was collapsing. That didn't stop him from swinging his axe upward.

Not too strongly though. Clark stepped on his arm and brought his axe to the ground. He then drew his dagger and placed it over the jugular. Craster coughed up some blood.

"Sin against…" he wheezed. "My sons…they'll—"

Clark pressed the blade in and withdrew quickly, silencing him. He stood up, careful to avoid the axe for any last desperate attempt from Craster. However, that didn't happen. The man gurgled, blood coursing onto the snow and soon, he was still.

Silence permeated the yard. Clark stepped forward and wiped his blade clean on Craster's shirt. He then withdrew the arrow and wiped it too, before placing it back in his quiver.

Finally, after avoiding it as long as he possibly could, he looked up, meeting the eyes of the wives.

There was fear in a few of them, but most just continued to stare at him with blank eyes. Clark stood still, not quite sure how to proceed from here. Finally an older wife stepped from the ranks and walked over. She stopped at Craster's corpse, staring down at him. Clark saw a single tear run down her cheek.

She turned to face him, the strain of the tear shining in the moonlight. Despite that, she was quite composed. Clark forced himself not to look away. He cleared his throat.

"Will you and the others allow me to walk out of here?" he asked, he hoped calmly. "I've no quarrel with you."

The moonlight reflected in her left eye as well. Her right eye was milk-white, blinded. There was a massive bruise just below.

"Are you here to claim wives from us?" she asked.

Clark took that question in, before shaking his head.

"No." He looked around, before coming back to the woman. "Not meaning to offend."

She nodded slowly, turned to Craster and spat. It landed square between his open eyes. She turned back to Clark.

"Then we have no quarrel with you."

Murmurs broke out amongst the women. Most agreed with the sentiment. Others didn't.

"He killed our protector!"

"Craster was no protector!" the elder woman shouted. Her eye was ablaze with a fury that Clark had never seen in anyone. Nothing but the worse in life was responsible for such a fury.

"He kept the old gods at bay," the young woman moaned. "What will we do when they come? Should Eva have a boy? They'll come to claim him!"

The fury in the woman's eyes faded enough to allow fear. The realization spread around the group, with the murmurs growing louder and louder.

"You'll need to leave," said Clark. His voice carried through the yard and the murmurs ceased. "Take what you can and get close to the Wall. Settle so that if the North realizes the dangers beyond the Wall and opens the gates for refugees, you'll be there."

"You're no southerner, ain't you?" said the woman. She stepped closer to him. "The crows will never open the gates for us. Not for any Free Folk."

"I'm working on that," said Clark, forcing himself to breathe steadily. "Winterfell knows of the White Walkers and knows that the Free Folk must come south. It's just…it's just the idiocy of men that we need to deal with first."

He gestured to Craster on the ground, trying not to flinch.

"I'm sure you have experience with that."

The blood was growing cold on his right hand…but he didn't feel cold so what was that tingling through him?

The woman sighed, her eyes on her dead husband. "If we wait for men's idiocy to fade, we'll die long before we cross."

Clark flexed his fingers. "It'll take time, but there's a chance. In the meantime, you and the others…you could live elsewhere while you wait. If you could survive him, you could survive anything."

The woman continued to gaze down at Craster. "We won't survive when they come for the next boy. They'll find us even if we leave. They walk out of the cold. And the cold is everywhere."

Clark dropped his bow and took a knee, opening the tied sack. He withdrew a dark dagger.

"This will stop them," he said, standing up and offering the dagger hilt first. The woman peered at the weapon, and then to him. Her gaze was piercing.

"It's dragonglass. Stab them with this and they turn to ice. The Children of the Forest used to wield such weapons."

Nobody moved. The woman continued to stare at him. Clark refused to blink.

"Take it. When they come for the babe, use it."

Her eyes dropped to the dragonglass. Finally she reached out and took it, running her finger lightly along the edge. She turned to the others.

"Prepare a pyre." She pointed to Craster. "He needs to burn tonight. We'll sleep here after. In the morn, we leave and we burn the rest."

A few left immediately to find material for the pyre. The rest trickled out slowly with wide eyes, not quite believing their new lot. They were Craster's wives ten minutes ago and now they were widowed.

Some approached the corpse, mostly the young, to see that he was truly gone. A couple also spat on him, kicked him, taking what little vengeance they could. Eventually they all left.

Clark followed the older woman as she ventured back to the house. She turned to him, her single eye questioning him.

"I don't know if I should ask this," he said. "But my supplies are low and I have another task in these parts before I can leave. Can I have some food please? Whatever you and your…whatever you all can't carry."

She stared at him before walking away. Reading a rejection, he stayed behind, but she turned and gestured for him to follow.

He was led to the stores where she handed him black bread and cured meat.

"Thank you," he said, placing it in the rucksack.

The old woman bowed her head.

"Two and sixty," she said quietly

He paused in the middle of tying the rucksack shut.

"What?"

"Craster has sixty-two sons. Every one, he gave to them."

She walked to the door, then hesitated. Bracing herself against the frame, she let the silence linger, before answering Clark's unasked question.

"Craster stole me," she spoke, facing away from him. "I'm not his daughter. I gave him his first son. There were sixty-two of them. I heard their cries disappear in the wood."

The wind carried into the house, but the woman didn't shiver. She seemed as unaffected by the cold as he was.

"I was here for the first wedding too."

Clark tried to think of something he could say that didn't sound patronizing or stupid. He couldn't, however the woman didn't seem to expect him to. She walked away and Clark, sensing the dismissal, walked back to the front of the house. He paused to grab a skin. Smelling the wine inside, he slung it over his shoulder with the bow.

Exiting, he passed Craster's corpse. Sticks covered him and the first flames were starting to spread. He didn't stop to watch the show. He wasn't ready to learn what burning flesh smells like. The keep sank deep behind him, the firelight growing weaker and weaker…

He blinked to see the glint of the moonlit chains. It took him a second to recognize the Nightfort. He set his head back and yawned. He needed to sleep and he was as safe here as any other night beyond the Wall.

After a final sip of his water, he stretched out, using his rucksack as a pillow. His final thoughts before resting were of Gilly. Perhaps the reason he was eager to leave was that he didn't wish to see her, knowing that he eliminated the possibility that Little Sam would ever be born into this world.

He didn't regret killing Craster and certainly didn't have second thoughts about sparing Gilly from the incestuous rape that led to the pregnancy. She could have other children. And she wouldn't miss a child that she would never birth.

Still, he couldn't help but see Little Sam's smile as he grew bigger. And it made him sad and slightly worried. How many of the younger Westerosi in this world wouldn't be conceived and born because of his actions?

He didn't have the energy to ponder the question further and he fell asleep quite easily in the haunted castle.

The Gift was a beautiful place. He wished he had more time and resources to explore it but he had to keep moving. He had spent more time beyond the Wall than he intended. Although as he thought about it, he supposed he was very lucky that he found the Free Folk as quickly as he did. In just a few weeks and Karsi among them too…

No, he told himself. That wasn't luck. That raven's presence was proof enough of that.

He came upon the Kingsroad after two days. Sparing the north a weary glance, he began to trudge south for Winterfell. Not that he expected to see Castle Black from where he started, but he was still anxious. This little trek beyond the Wall was not something he wanted the Night's Watch to be aware of.

Then again, should they start talking with the Free Folk, it might come back to them. Probably shouldn't have told them my name.

Tiresias kicked a stone away and continued to march.

My name…not 'my new name' or 'my chosen name'. Just my name…huh…

That quiet realization disturbed him a little, but he tried to put it out of his head as he continued to walk. He was grateful that he wasn't being jostled by the wagon anymore, but that meant the walk was longer and much more tiring. And having started on the Kingsroad on an unknown spot, he had no idea how much farther there was to go until Winterfell.

In a few days though, he came across a familiar sight, where the Last River intersected with the Kingsroad. He was tempted to stay the night here, though he still had a few hours of daylight left to hike. It would feel good to camp in a familiar place.

As he explored the area where they had camped weeks prior, he noticed something though. If the Stark entourage had already marched back and continued onto Winterfell, there would be signs of a recent camp. They wouldn't just bypass it. This location was too convenient for resting and watering the horses.

But all the signs of a large company camping were too old. The impromptu firepits, the faded indents of the wagons with hoof-prints, no clean bark where small branches were broken off the trees for firewood. All the signs of the Winterfell retinue were from the trek up north, the trek that he had accompanied.

Which meant that the Stark entourage hadn't come this way yet. And that meant that if he turned on the road to Last Hearth, he would meet up with them…supposedly.

Clark sat down on the riverbed, thinking it though. He could have just pulled all of this straight from his ass. Why would Ned Stark not be in Winterfell yet? Enough time had passed. What else would he have been doing? Also, even if he was in Last Hearth, what was the benefit in delaying his return to Winterfell?

By the time he made up his mind and stood, he had nothing but flimsy excuses; he wanted to see Last Hearth, wanted to see the Umbers, wanted to take the chance that he would be reunited with the Winterfell men, whom he actually missed beyond the Wall.

With flimsy excuses and all, he turned east and began to follow the river. At the end of it all, the Last Hearth was only a short distance away. It would be worth the trip. And if he arrived and Ned Stark was long gone, he would look like an idiot. But at least he could maybe pick up some supplies. He was tired of hunting every night.

In a sharp contrast to the abandoned, frozen castle that had fallen to the Night King, the Last Hearth that Clark approached was boisterous and peppered with many a light, from the torches on the walls to the open flames where he could hear the drunken singing even from a distance. It encouraged him, but he didn't quicken his step. He was too tired for that.

No one spared him a second glance as he stepped through the gate. Or so he thought. He smelled the guard before he put his hand on his shoulder.

"Who are yeh? And what business do yeh have here?"

Clark turned to a breastplate that was at his eye level. He looked up to meet the guard's eye and opened his mouth when…

"Tiresias! Is that you?"

Clark didn't turn back around entirely as he didn't want to upset the guard. However he did manage to catch a glimpse of Gord before the big man slapped him on the back.

"You made it, man! Finally!" exclaimed Gord, before he turned to the guard. "It's all right, Harmond. He's one of us," he said politely.

That earned Clark a dubious stare from Harmond.

"Not built like one of you, that's for sure," the Umber guard said.

"Nor like you, thank the Gods for that," said Gord, as he guided Clark further into the castle. They entered the inner courtyard and headed straight for the huge kegs.

"There we are," said Gord, finding an extra mug and filling it, before passing it to Clark. "Cheers, mate, cheers. Glad to finally feast with you on this journey!"

"A feast?"

"Aye, we'll be packing up and headed back to Winterfell in the morn. If all else, you've great timing."

Relief flooded Clark as he leaned against the keg and he followed that relief with ale, tilting his mug after clinking with it with Gord's.

The giant guard wiped his mouth and stared at him. "Gods, did you forget to eat in Castle Black?"

"No...why?"

"I swear you lost a stone since last I saw you. The Night's Watch's food really that shite?"

Clark shrugged. "Nah...just forgot to eat sometimes."

Gord nodded. "It happens sometimes. You know, I've seen some librarians so lost in their books, their stories, they forget themselves. Starve to death."

"Horseshit." Clark placed down his empty mug. "You don't know any other librarians."

Gord shrugged. "Aye, true."

"I am hungry though," said Clark, pushing off from the keg. "And I do need to speak with Lord Stark. Where is he?"

Gord pointed to what appeared to be the main hall and Clark followed. It seemed to be the popular place for the evening. He shuffled along the corridors, amongst men who towered over the average height. They ignored him entirely.

He entered the Great Hall and spotted Ned at once. He was the guest of honor, seated next to a huge man that Clark hadn't seen since the Greyjoy Rebellion. The Greatjon was laughing and dragging a smile out of Ned Stark, prompting cheers from the men. Clark fortified himself and walked past the food. He had to see Lord Stark first.

He paused in front of the high table.

"Lord Stark," he called over the noise. The Lord of Winterfell paused and stared at him.

"Tiresias?" He buried his surprise before inclining his head. "You've arrived."

"Aye, just now."

"And the Castle Black library?"

"A complete success, my lord. I do thank you for allowing me to leave your company and stay there for further study. I do have some matters to discuss with you, but they can wait for another time."

"Of course, Tiresias," said Ned, fully in control. He turned to his host. "Lord Umber, this is Tiresias, our librarian at Winterfell."

"Tiresias, eh?" said the Greatjon, eyeing the man.

"Good evening, Lord Umber," Tiresias said. "Forgive me for intruding. I was merely catching up to Lord Stark."

"Fuck off with all that," called the Greatjon. "If you're with Lord Ned, you're welcome here. And just in time for the farewell feast! Go on! Drink, man! Eat! And then drink again!"

Clark nodded. "Thank you, Lord Umber." He turned to Ned. "Good to see you again, Lord Stark."

He found an empty spot at the edge of the hall and sat, sighing in relief. It had been a long time since he had a seat for dinner. The next hour passed in a daze. There was a plate placed in front of him, a meat and potato pie with herbs and butter. He drank steadily through a second helping. Actual tears came to his eyes as he bit into a marionberry tart, at the sour pleasantness of the pastry.

He was just licking his fingers, well aware that he hadn't washed them properly in a month when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a Winterfell guard over him, with a familiar face and very sober eyes.

"Lord Stark wishes to see you immediately," he stated.

The guard's name clicked, Theodore, one of Ned's personal guards. An impressive fighter with bushy eyebrows. Clark nodded and stood, looking to the high table.

But the Lord of Winterfell wasn't there.

"He's in his guest chamber," explained Theodore. "Follow me."

Perhaps it helped that out of the many, many intoxicated people in the dining hall, he was still comparatively sober. Nevertheless, he found himself swaying slightly as he followed Theodore out of the Great Hall. The laughter faded into the background they walked to the guest chambers of the castle.

Clark blinked to find Theodore halted in front of a door and knocking.

"Enter," called Ned from the inside.

He walked past the guard into the chamber. Ned Stark was seated by the fire. He stood waiting, wanting to curse himself. He shouldn't have drunk that much. It wasn't dignified and he was sure his attempts to stop his swaying were in vain.

"Thank you, Theodore," said Ned. "That is all."

The door closed and Ned gestured to the chair opposite. He crossed and sank in the cushion. If he thought the wooden bench in the Great Hall was heavenly, this was something else. He sighed, unable to hide his weariness. He looked to see Ned staring intently at him.

"Would you care for some wine?"

Clark shook his head and lifted his waterskin, draining the remnants of the Last River. As he wiped his mouth, he couldn't resist another sigh.

"I've already drunk enough to make me miserable on the wagon tomorrow," he said, smiling. "Best not make it completely unbearable."

He leaned back into the chair.

"I'm a little surprised to see you here, Lord Stark. I'd thought you'd be home in Winterfell by now."

"I delayed," Ned responded. "It had been a long time since I'd been to Karhold. Lord Karstark hosted us for a week. We arrived here only a few days ago."

"Was that for me?"

"Only slightly."

They fell silent for a bit, hearing the crackle of a fire. A fire that he wasn't responsible for, that he didn't have to build or tend. The thought cheered him. He knew he didn't need the warmth beyond the Wall. It was just a little more terrifying alone at night with no fire.

Ned Stark pulled out a letter, the one that he had passed to him on top of the Wall. It was still sealed.

"You didn't read it?"

"It hasn't been a year. You returned from beyond the Wall."

"Are you surprised?"

"Yes," Ned muttered immediately. "I didn't expect you to…"

The Lord of Winterfell didn't finish his sentence. He didn't have to.

"And yet you still allowed me to go," mumbled Clark, sinking lower into the chair. "You assisted me in crossing. I appreciate that. I truly do. Thank you for your trust."

Ned glanced at him. "You look like you barely ate up there."

Clark shrugged. "Turns out, hunting's a bit sparse in the true North. Especially if you're a lone traveler. But I survived."

"You don't appear as though you merely sat in the Castle Black library all this time."

"Well…I supposed I say that I was too engrossed in the materials and…forgot to eat."

He thanked Gord internally for the covering lie. And it wasn't a horrible lie. During Clark's sophomore midterms in college, he studied so intensely that he forgot meals. It brought the wrath of his sister down on him when she found out.

With that memory, a dull sad pain weighed on his heart. He raised his eyes to see Lord Stark gripping the letter tightly.

"Do you wish for me to keep this?" Ned asked lowly.

Clark shook his head. "It wouldn't do for others to see it. Besides it's a sloppy letter. I wrote it far too quickly."

Ned nodded and tossed it into the flames. The envelope curled as it turned black. They watched until it was completely consumed, with no chance to ever be seen by unwelcomed eyes.

"Do the men suspect anything?"

Lord Stark shook his head. "Hoenstly, no one mentioned you...except Ser Rodrik. He questioned your absence as we departed Castle Black. The first night as we camped along the Wall."

Clark sighed. "I suppose he would. How'd you answer him?"

"That you had further business at Castle Black," said Ned shortly. Clark smirked slightly. That kind of tone shut down any further inquiry. At least he hoped.

Ned scratched his beard. "What of your business beyond the Wall?"

"Craster's dead" Clark stated bluntly. He felt Ned's eyes go to him, but he kept watching the flames dance. "I shot him with an arrow and cut his throat. Saw his corpse. One of his wives…an older one. She says that he has given sixty-two sons to the Night King. Over the years."

He turned back to Ned, only to see that his eyes to drawn to the fire as well.

"So that means that at least sixty-two White Walkers are beyond the Wall?"

Clark couldn't suppress a yawn. "Probably. Wouldn't surprise me though if the Night King has made others before Craster."

Ned's eyes seemed to dull at that point, not even reflecting the fire at all.

"Then are the wildlings already doomed?"

"A certain number of them, to be sure." Clark scratched his knee. "I didn't go beyond the Wall with any hope of preventing all deaths on behalf of the Free Folk. Just enough to make a difference when the time comes. I hope I succeeded."

"Then your second objective went well?"

"I believe so. As well as it could." He smiled slightly, not feeling cheerful though. "We do have an ally beyond the Wall. I can't speak to him directly, but he guided me to some Free Folk and one had a familiar face."

"Mance Rayder?"

Clark shook his head. "Nah, the man was farther north than me. A girl, almost a woman, who will grow to be fierce and strong. I gave her and her company the dragonglass and told them to use it wisely against the White Walkers."

"All of it?"

"I gave a dagger to Craster's wives. Also, one to your brother." He turned to Ned and leaned forward. "The wives are marching to the Wall. To try and further themselves from the sons they gave. The dagger will catch the White Walker offguard the first time, perhaps the second. But they need to cross the Wall in order to truly be safe. All the Free Folk do. We can ship all the dragonglass beyond the Wall that we possibly can…but this isn't a war that they can win, even with those weapons."

A silence filled the chamber. Clark glanced to the door. He hoped he had kept his voice down. Theodore didn't have to hear any of this.

"But I realize," he said, standing up. "That it's late, I'm tipsy, we're tired, we're not at Winterfell, and we have a long journey ahead of us in the morning. So I believe we should leave it for tonight."

He turned to go, before stopping himself and turning back.

"With your leave, Lord Stark?"

Ned nodded and he continued to the door.

"Tiresias," he said. Clark stopped with his hand on the door.

"Yes?"

"Those from Craster's place? It's only his wives, his daughters? No sons?"

Clark nodded. "Aye, that's the gist of it."

"I'll write to Benjen. See if he can find them and bring them through. If they agree. If the Night's Watch can be persuaded…"

He looked to Clark, who had come back to the fire, his hand resting on the chair.

"If the wildlings come through, we'll need to start slow. It can't be a full exodus. The wives of Craster…they aren't rapers, they aren't bandits. The Lord Commander might be willing…if they have employment waiting for them. Perhaps among the Northernmost houses. Those are the ones who will need to be persuaded that all not wildlings raid and pillage. The Mormonts maybe, the Forresters…"

"The Umbers?" suggested Clark.

Ned shook his head. "I don't trust Lord Umber to protect the younger ones." He turned back to Clark and sighed. "When we return to Winterfell, we'll find a way."

Clark waited, but Lord Stark seemed done for the night. He tapped the chair.

"I'm not sure I'm that optimistic, Lord Stark. But I appreciate that you are."

"It's my duty," Ned said quietly. "I must believe I can find a solution. I must act as if I can."

That got a humorless chuckle out of Clark.

"I did miss you, Lord Stark." He crossed to the door, turning back as he gripped the door knob. "Good night."

Theodore was still present, standing at his station. He didn't respond in kind when Clark bid him good night too.

It took him a minute to realize that he was still carrying his rucksack. Also that he had no place to sleep tonight. After visiting the latrine and filling up his waterskin, he wormed his way through the last remaining revelers, finding a bench in the courtyard. He figured they couldn't miss him here in the morning.

He stretched out, the hard surface of the bench more of a firm comfort than an ache. Here in Last Hearth, the sounds of the forest were dulled with songs and laughter. Here he couldn't hear the river flow. Here, he was safer than he had been in weeks.

And yet for all that, he struggled to sleep, his senses alert for anything that could get him in the dark.

They arrived back at Winterfell to a far greater fanfare than they had left. Probably helped that it was late afternoon when they rolled into the courtyard as opposed to predawn. By the time Clark had entered on the wagon, Ned was receiving fierce hugs from Arya and Bran. Robb, Jon and Sansa tried to maintain some poise but it was futile. Their father had been gone for far too long.

Ned quickly disappeared with them into the castle, leaving the rest of the supplies to be handled by the servants. Clark stayed behind and lifted one end of his full trunk. He turned to ask Gord for assistance, but the giant guard was preoccupied. He'd seen Ginn across the yard and went to greet her. He wasn't lying about her smile…

Grinning himself, he recruited another servant, Wull. They carried the trunk all the way to the library.

As Wull left, Maester Luwin came into the library, chains clinking. He shook Clark's hand.

"Welcome back to Winterfell, Tiresias."

"Thank you, Maester Luwin," replied Clark, opening the trunk. "How has Winterfell fared these past couple of months?"

"Fair enough," said Maester Luwin. He moved to the open trunk, running his hand along the tomes gently. "The Night's Watch was very generous, I see."

"Aye. Too generous in my opinion, but Maester Aemon insisted."

"He's a good man."

Clark picked up a tome. "You know him?"

Luwin shrugged. "Only through the letters, but he writes kindly."

"I see," said Clark, looking from the trunk to Luwin. "I hope you'll excuse me if I don't enter these into our records today. I'm very tired. But I will place them there for tomorrow's work and return the trunk."

"Of course, of course," said Luwin, waving it away. "You must be exhausted. I have many duties as well with the returning entourage. Lord Stark will need my attention this evening."

He nodded and the maester patted him on the shoulder.

"Rest tonight, Tiresias. You deserve it."

Clark watched the old man leave.

I sure goddamn hope so.

Before he could rest though, despite not wanting to do any more constructive tasks tonight, he knew he had to run errands in Wintertown before the shops closed for the night. He needed a new quill. Plus, he lost a couple of shirt buttons beyond the Wall.

He steeled himself and wandered down to the market place, exchanging greetings with the various shopkeepers. He was perusing a limited selection of buttons when he heard someone come up on his left. Someone whom he was told never to visit again.

"Tiresias?"

With a second's hesitation, he turned to see Renei, with her basket. He nodded.

"Hello, Renei. How are you?"

She shrugged. "All right."

The shopkeeper walked off, to tend to someone invisible at the other end of the stall. She may have serviced prostitutes, but she didn't wish to be a part of their business.

"You just arrived back, didn't you?" she asked.

"Aye, from the Wall, at Castle Black. Tended to some tomes there."

"Library must be keeping you busy." she said, with the faint hint of a smile. "You haven't visited in months. Ambre's annoyed at me. Think I scared off a steady customer."

"I keep my word. You asked me not to call on you again."

She shrugged. "Still leaves plenty of other girls. What? You catch feelings for me?"

He returned her gaze calmly. "Did you?"

Renei smiled and shook her head. "Nah," she replied somewhat honestly. "Fond of you, sure. But nothing more."

"Is that why you told me never to call again?"

"That's part of it. But…mostly, it was the look in your eye. When you returned to the mill. And later at breakfast…it's almost the same look you have now. Returning to Winterfell again."

Mercifully, someone else approached the stall and the shopkeeper jumped to them. Understanding each other, Renei and Clark walked away down the street, turning into an alley. They paused and looked at each other.

"Did you find your mother's stolen treasure at Castle Black, Tiresias?" she asked softly.

Clark shook his head. "No, I didn't."

Renei sighed. "Even if you were speaking true…and the man was already dead when you arrived…you're going to be around that, aren't you?"

He didn't confirm or deny it. However, Renei seemed to interpret his silence correctly.

"That thing is too much for me. I appreciate the coin I received. Maybe it will let me go home. Say Garrel Batler died. And start over again. If I could."

"It's not the worse idea."

"Tiresias…" He looked at her. She looked like she was struggling to ask something. In the end, she decided against it. "You're still welcome at Ambre's. I didn't mean to ban you entirely."

"I know." He shrugged. "Just haven't felt like it. And not just because of you."

The shadows were beginning to fall more quickly. If he wanted to complete his errands, he would have to move along.

"Good night, Renei." He had to leave.

"How did you know?" she asked behind him. He turned to see that she gathered enough gumption to ask the question. "How did you know that I would keep to your alibi? Even after there was a murder?"

A silence fell between them, but Renei was prepared to wait it out. Clark sighed and conceded.

"If you went to the authorities, you would have to disclose the true nature of our relationship. Allow your family to discover what you've truly been doing in the North. I knew that. It's part of why I asked you to come with me."

There was no surprise in her blue eyes, but there was still hurt. She hitched her basket and walked past, pausing right in front of him.

"You need a bath," she said, before marching down the street. Clark watched her disappear. She didn't look back.

Later, Clark sat in the hot springs, soaking in the heat. Renei spoke the truth. Having arrived the night before their departure at Last Hearth, he had no time to take a bath. The filth was not too noticeable out in the wild. But here in Winterfell, after not bathing since he left, his stink was obvious.

He emerged from the water with his skin scrubbed raw, wishing for coconut oil.

Maybe they have coconuts in Naath…

He would have stayed in there all night, if not for his stomach. It growled as he stood from the water and dried. It wasn't a full feast when he walked into the Great Keep, but something was definitely thrown together for the return of Ned and company. He sat down across from Barth, always a delightful and silent dinner partner. The brewer nodded to him before returning to his dinner and that was his welcome home.

Not his only one though. Clark felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Welcome back, Tiresias."

He turned to see Mal looking down at him, her brown eyes widening as he turned.

"Hello, Mal," he said. "How are you?"

"I'm well." She blinked. "Did you not eat at all when you were gone?"

Christ, is it that noticeable?

He shrugged. "Probably not as much as I should have. Got lost in the pages. Forgot to eat sometimes."

The dining room seemed a little warmer at the moment. Mal didn't look amused.

"You shouldn't forget things like that. It's not healthy."

"Well, it wasn't on purpose." Clark sighed. "Sorry…may I have something? I'm hungry now."

After a beat, she nodded. "Aye, I'll bring you something."

She left. Clark turned back around to see Barth look back down to his plate. All of his face seem to be grinning except his mouth.

"What?"

Barth shrugged. Clark sighed.

"Aye, that's all I get from you, right?" He rubbed his temple. "No wonder I like eating with you."

The rest of dinner passed in a daze. Not quite the daze that he had experienced at Last Hearth, but it was still a little disorientating. Comforting, but disorientating.

It probably helped that he had actually eaten regularly over the past fortnight. And that he rode in the wagon, as opposed to walking all day…and that he hadn't drunk as much tonight.

"Tiresias?"

He had sensed Jon Snow approaching him, but still allowed the boy to surprise him. He swallowed some ale and turned to see the young boy right behind him.

"You're becoming more and more silent," he said. "Still could use some work though. Arya puts you to shame."

He couldn't stop a grin from spreading on his face, which Jon returned. He clapped the young boy on the shoulder.

"It's good to see you, Jon. Sit down." He scooted over, making room. "Mal's about to bring me a dessert. I'll split it with you."

Jon didn't need the extra motivation, but he still sat.

"How are things here in Winterfell?"

The boy shrugged. "No different," he said.

"No different?"

"Lessons, training, running about."

Clark lowered his voice. "Is Theon treating you better?"

They both looked to the high table. Theon was sitting next to Robb, who was staring at Ned with serious attention. He wondered what tale of the Wall, Last Hearth or Karhold the Quiet Wolf was relaying. Theon stared at his plate, pretending not to listen but Clark could tell he was.

Jon shrugged. "He's fine. Not nice…but better."

Clark sighed. "Well, I suppose that's progress." Something caught his eye. "All right, here it is."

Mal placed a baked apple in front of him.

"Thank you, Mal," chorused Jon and Clark.

Mal smiled at Jon, before she shot a curious look at Clark. He barely had time to register it before she turned and walked away.

Clark shook his head and tried to ignore that Barth was giving him the same look as before. He divided the apple into two and gave Jon his fork.

"Here," he said, pushing the plate toward him. "You first."

"You sure?"

"Honestly, I don't care for baked apples. You can even have it all if you want."

Jon shook his head. "That's all right."

The young boy took a few bites as Clark nursed his ale. Finally Jon turned to him.

"You were at Castle Black all this time, right?"

"Aye, something like that."

"What was it like?"

Clark heard the hidden question. Jon Snow wasn't nearly as sneaky as he believed. He sighed to himself. He thought he had a few more years before Jon Snow would start considering the Night's Watch. However, this was a foolish thought on his part. Robb was already learning his future duties of Warden of the North.

Or perhaps King in the North…

His teeth set at the unwelcomed thought. The point was that Jon was surrounded by reminders of his future all the time. Why wouldn't he start planning for it?

"Tiresias?" Jon inquired and Clark realized he'd remained silent for too long.

He cleared his throat.

"It's old," he said. "It feels older than Winterfell, although it's not. But the castle itself is in disrepair. Everything creaks and moans in the cold."

He turned to Jon.

"Actually, it's not entirely fair to call it a castle. It's a fortress but not a particularly good one. It has little protection from the south. The library was quite good though. There are tomes there, Jon, that are older than the Andals. Some of them we brought back."

Jon took a few more bites of the apple.

"And the Night's Watch?"

Clark breathed through his nose.

"It's long since lost the honorable reputation that it once held in the Seven Kingdoms," he said. "Don't get me wrong, Jon. There are good men in the order. The Lord Commander's one. Jeor Mormont could definitely bring something to the post. Your uncle, Benjen. I saw him."

Jon's eyes widened at the mention of Benjen.

"Also, Qhorin Halfhand and Maester Aemon are there as well…well, maybe not Qhorin most of the time. He ranges frequently. And there are hardworking, honorable men as well, but most…well, the vast majority of the men, Jon…"

He sighed and looked Jon in the eye.

"The North is pretty much the only kingdom which regards the Night's Watch as an honorable vocation. The rest of the kingdoms view it as a penal colony. And they've treated it as such. They ship north criminals and bad men or just unfortunate souls who've come under bad luck and force them to take the black. Therefore, there's numerous members of the Night's Watch who aren't honorable or good, and the cold does little to change that. It's a dangerous place, Jon."

Jon seemed to deflate before him. Clark placed a hand his shoulder.

"I'm not saying you can't find honor there. Benjen is there and he's doing important work beyond the Wall. I'm just saying that it's not the clean and honorable place you may have in your head. So…I would wait on joining."

Jon's eyes widened again and he turned toward the high table, before coming back to Clark.

"Please don't tell my father," he whispered.

Clark pushed the rest of the apple to Jon.

"As long as you promise to wait until you're a man before you go running off North."

Jon nodded earnestly. Clark finished his ale.

"Now, Jon, I'm tired and I have quite a bit of work to do in the morning. Good night."

He turned and exited the Great Hall. A few of the house guards gave their greetings and their welcome backs and he accepted them as the fog of sleep slowly crept through his head.

By the time he had made it to his room, he was yawning every few seconds. He stripped as he walked to the bed, leaving the clothes in crumpled piles on the floor.

Despite his exhaustion, he sat on the bed for a few minutes, not lying down just yet. His mind was on the whore from Gulltown again. Her death didn't start to haunt him until he arrived back at Winterfell. What about Craster? For the past several weeks, he had traversed beyond the Wall and through the North without nary a shudder at the memory of his kill. Now that he had returned from another mission, another assassination, he wondered if he would see the cruel man tonight, blood flowing from his throat…

Just like Littlefinger…I didn't know that people sounded different when their throats were cut…Littlefinger's muffled scream, Craster's shivering gurgle…will I hear them all in my dreams tonight? Along with the creak of the hanging whore?

He sighed and laid down, resigning himself to the risk. After all, there were only nightmares. The morning would save him in good time.