22 Chapter 22

There was a drawer in Tiresias' desk, filled with parchment scraps. These scraps consisted of map drawings and information scribbled down from every source he could find: tomes, scrolls and even gossip. It grew steadily, ill-organized; plaguing Tiresias for the past two years. This drawer was dedicated to the Dreadfort and the bastard that dwelt within.

Over the past month, Tiresias had sat down with these scraps and attempted to organize and condense them. He forwent exercise and even dinner on a few evenings. The threat of Ramsay Snow loomed on his conscious.

Tiresias had made the decision early in his Winterfell residency that he would start on Ramsay around now. He was about the same age as Jon and Robb. As with those two boys, he was probably going through puberty and a whole new world was opening to him. He was already a sadist. Now, he would start to explore his new longings through his sadism.

The only information he had about Ramsay before the show began were the details of his conception and that he enjoyed hunting peasant girls with his dogs. He'd be out in the open, away from the Dreadfort, but he wouldn't be old enough to be too much of a physical challenge. This was the opportune time to hunt Ramsay down and kill him.

He desperately wanted to make a trip beforehand to ascertain the environment, inquire the locals and concoct a plan that didn't involve going blindly into the lands of a sociopath lord and his psychotic son. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't ask too many questions of those who lived there. Should Lord Bolton or his hunters ever ask around, he would be doomed and so would any who had helped him, even inadvertently. The Boltons still skinned those, whom they thought disloyal.

Although from what he gathered from living in Winterfell these past few years, that wasn't common knowledge. Roose Bolton, though clearly dangerous to those that knew him, kept the appearance of a law-abiding lord well enough. Flaying remained a secret confined to the dungeons of the Dreadfort, passed on through the generations.

Lord Stark certainly didn't know this. He didn't like Roose Bolton personally, but as far as he knew, flaying was banned in the North and the law stood.

That changed a month ago, when Tiresias asked to speak to him privately, joining him on the balconies overlooking the main courtyard…

"I want you to imagine a scenario, Lord Stark."

They stood out of earshot to anyone, including Ned's personal guard. To all eyes concerned, they were simply observing the stables. Where Robb, Jon and Theon were working up quite a sweat, cleaning them out.

It was a sennight after the wedding and despite Tiresias' efforts to usher the drunken boys to bed without notice, they were found out. All three looked quite sick at breakfast in the Great Hall the following morning and upon inquiries of their health from Lady Catelyn, Theon responded by being sick in front of her.

Tiresias arrived in the Great Hall just in time to see the projectile vomit. Never claiming to be a courageous man, he turned and exited immediately. So he didn't witness their haranguing. He saw them soon after in the yard however and their pained faces were now colored with embarrassment.

It just so happened that on the same day, Hullen announced a major cleaning and refurbishing of the stables. And before evening came, he had three new workers who had volunteered under the direction of Lord Eddard. Theon, Jon and Robb would be working in the stables until the task was completed. Definitely over a full month. Theon grumbled they would stink of horseshit for much longer afterwards.

However, the Ironborn continued to shovel and keep his remarks to a minimum. He worked as hard as the other two. Given that he so often glanced up to see the Lord of Winterfell staring down at him, Tiresias supposed that Theon felt at least a little shame at his actions; wanting to be regarded a little higher by his foster guardian.

Ned looked to Tiresias. "What scenario?"

"According to Jeor Mormont, the Night's Watch has been communicating cautiously with Mance for the past year. Tensions are…well, easing's the wrong word for it, but they're talking at least. Talking openly. About the White Walkers. A possible peace. They're not speaking of the migration. No one's mentioned coming south yet."

He checked around, but all possible ears were still too far away. He returned to Lord Stark.

"But when someone does," he muttered. "It's gonna cause a shit storm among the Northern lords. We've known about this ever since the beginning. Wildlings and crows deciding not to fight? That's all right. Could always use a little less blood. Despite what Lord Umber says. But when you make the decision to open the gates…"

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair.

"Rebellion," Ned stated lightly. "It will go beyond my bannermen voicing their opposition, won't it?"

Tiresias nodded and Ned took his turn to sigh.

"Is that what you saw?" he asked. "My bannermen betraying me?"

A cry of disgust came from the yard. They turned to see Robb doubled over laughing. Theon had crossed behind Jon just as the boy turned to toss a shovelful of manure into the pile and had taken the full brunt of it. Jon looked horrified and apologetic while also fighting back his own amusement. Robb had to come between them, practically crying with laughter.

Another memory of Robb came to Tiresias. His smile gone. His entire head actually, replaced with another one. Tied upright on a horse…

As the children grew older and looked more and more like their show counterparts, he often saw the grisly futures that awaited them. It took him by surprise a few times and he had to dismiss himself to regain his composure.

Thankfully, he didn't lose any breath over this most recent association. He turned back to Ned, leaving the boys to their manure.

"I told you when we first met that I would do my best to keep you and your family safe from treachery. Most of the treachery came from outside the North…but there's one family here that needs to be dealt with.

"Here's the scenario I'll ask you to imagine; the reaction of your bannermen to you announcing of that you'll allow the Free Folk south through the Wall. Anger from the Umbers, concern from the Mormonts, questions from the Manderlys…"

He lowered his voice for good measure.

"How do you think Roose Bolton will react?"

Ned didn't say anything. He didn't need to. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. And that was answer enough.

"If all your bannermen were present in the Great Hall as you announce it, he would sit quietly amidst the uproar. Keep his seat, keep his poise. He'd speak at some point; offer some valid concerns. He'll stay reasonable and at the end, despite the passion from the louder lords, he'll pledge his support. After all, he is loyal to the Starks.

"That's the image he'll give publicly. As he rides away the next morning, he's already formed a plan. I can't say for certain whether or not Roose Bolton had always schemed to betray your family. But he is a man that knows an opportunity when he sees it. And this will be a splendid opportunity. The chaos that will come with the arrival of the Free Folk will lead him to approach other disgruntled lords. Lords that you thought loyal. As for the lords that will reject him, he'll go for their sons. He'll insinuate. He'll water seeds of discontent and eventually you will be targeted. Your family as well."

It took Tiresias a long time to recognize fear in Ned Stark's eyes. Only after a couple of years at Winterfell was he able to discern it in the grim gaze.

"So you wish to kill Lord Bolton?" he asked calmly.

Tiresias shook his head. "No. No, I want to kill his son."

Lord Stark's grim gaze vanished and was replaced with incredulity. It's been a while since Tiresias had seen that look. He continued.

"His bastard son, Ramsay. That's the next one I want to get rid of."

Ned finally found his voice.

"He can't be…how old is he?"

"No older than Robb or Jon. Probably."

"So, a boy? You wish to kill a boy?"

"I do."

He spoke calmly and he could Ned was doing his best to return the favor, though it was difficult. The Lord of Winterfell took a deep breath and locked eyes with him. Tiresias did his best not to crumble at the fire he saw in them.

"You just spoke of Roose Bolton. It is his treachery that you foresaw, aye?"

"That's right."

"So, why are you targeting his boy?"

"Because I want to take Roose's weapons away from him. Ramsay may be a boy now, but he will grow up to be the most evil man in the North, Bolton's mad dog. I guarantee you that when Roose begins to move against you, he will bring out Ramsay. I've seen the man that boy will grow into, Lord Stark. There's no one who enjoys the suffering of others more. He'll revel in torture, rape, mutilation, the worst depravities of man..."

He checked his surroundings yet again before continuing.

"I've seen him enact these depravities on members of your family," he muttered. "I won't go in detail, but some of your children do cross paths with him. They'll suffer for it. Dearly."

He didn't meet Lord Stark's eyes, but he sensed a heat coming from him. Counting to five, he then continued.

"Roose Bolton has the capacity to betray you, and he probably will attempt to do so. But he's also smart and won't act unless he's certain he'll win. Having a mad dog is a good boon, even though he'll underestimate just how much control he has over Ramsay. But with Ramsay gone and another factor, he'll probably see that he won't gain enough allies to topple you, through conspiracy or fear."

"What other factor?" asked Ned.

"In order for the Northern lords to accept the Free Folk, they need to accept the danger of the White Walkers and that danger can only be conveyed face to face."

Tiresias swallowed his reservations and hoped he was making the right choice.

"You need evidence."

"What evidence?"

"Evidence of a wight. You'll need to capture a wight beyond the Wall and bring it south. Alive...so to speak. In chains. Screeching to every keep in the North or to Winterfell for a big show. Bring the lords of the North to stare into those blue eyes."

"Can they even be captured?"

Clark nodded. "One was. In my vision. Of course, they had a major disadvantage. The Army had already swelled in numbers and an escape was barely possible. The Free Folk are fighting battles in the north. Don't know how much they're winning. But they're still small skirmishes. Get a strong crate to the Wall. Gag a creature and drag it to Castle Black."

He sighed. "It's risky, I know. But you need a wight. The Northern loyalty to the Stark name won't stand if you bring wildlings through. You need hard evidence to overcome their animosity."

Ned Stark didn't say anything for a while. Theon had calmed down enough to walk back into the barn. Robb and Jon continued to shovel, waiting until Theon had disappeared to laugh again. Tiresias and Ned stood quietly, listening to their mirth.

Finally Ned met his eyes.

"If you're caught in his lands, there'll be nothing I could do to save you. I can't show support for a child-murderer."

Tiresias nodded. "I figured. As far as anyone's concerned, it's my idea alone."

"Can you hold to that? If you're right about Lord Bolton, he won't make your imprisonment easy. It will be pain beyond anything you've ever felt. Their banner promises it. As do their words."

"Our blades are sharp."

"And they are. Will you hold to your tale? And guarantee that he won't seek retribution against my family?"

He took a second to consider it before nodding. "I'll hold to it. I'll play mad. But I'll say a truth of sorts. That I saw the boy in a dream. And what the boy did. No details about the Starks."

Was that a promise he couldn't keep? He didn't know. He'd never been tortured before. And even if Lord Bolton accepted that he was a mad man, he doubted that would buy him a quick death. Would he just rot in the dungeon? For years to come? With no hope of escape or release…

There was no need to voice that. He could tell that Lord Stark knew of that possibility as well. He heard it in his voice.

"Are you prepared for what might happen?" he asked.

Tiresias sighed. "Honestly no. No one can prepare for that kind of pain. But I'll resign myself to it if it means that Ramsay Snow won't be around to plague the North and your children."

That seemed to do it. Ned wasn't a man who was turned by blind machismo. The Lord of Winterfell sighed himself.

"Then you have my blessing."

Dread and relief coursed in equal measures through Tiresias.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I've probably just killed you in the most horrible way."

With that, Ned Stark turned and walked back to the keep, his guards falling behind him. Tiresias was left alone on the balcony with only the wind. A horrible shaking overcame him and it took several minutes to calm himself. He gripped the railing tightly, not letting go until his mask of serenity was secure.

That mask slipped a few times in the last month. He faced inquiries of his health and his temperament from many in the castle; Luwin during his work, Mal during meals, Jon during the spars. He waved them away as best he could.

Ultimately though he did isolate himself as the month went on. Poring over maps of Bolton's territory; from the Last River down to the White Knife and further to the Sheepshead Hills, he studied the topography and geography as best he could, hoping to avoid asking too many questions of those who lived under the Boltons. He read everything he could about the Dreadfort and the surrounding lands of the Lonely Hills and the Weeping Water river. He tried to put himself in the mind of a sadistic young boy and wondered where a young Ramsay went to begin his hunts.

He wrote a letter to Maester Wolkan, essentially asking for an open invitation to visit the Dreadfort to peruse their library and select possible volumes for Winterfell. He had put off communicating with House Bolton about any donations for the library so that he could have this excuse one day to travel there.

He didn't specify when he would be coming; explaining he was waiting on some other business to conclude but he requested an open window of time to visit. His raven was returned shortly. Maester Wolkan seemed as friendly as he was in the show and graciously told him to visit whenever the time was convenient.

With that invitation in hand, he prepared for a long absence away from Winterfell. His excursions were common enough that he went through the motions absentminded. He blinked at the end of the day, packed and ready to depart in the morning.

Dinner was subdued that night. He sat silently with Barth and forced himself to eat. Food was hard to swallow. He didn't approach Ned to say goodbye. He'd already informed Maester Luwin of his departure. Ned already knew and indeed when he stood to depart the Great Hall, he looked to the high table and saw the Warden of the North looking toward him.

A few seconds followed before Ned nodded in dismissal. Tiresias returned the nod and turned, not quite sure when he would return or if he ever would.

As he turned out of the Great Hall, he walked past by Ginn, who said hello. He returned the greeting automatically. As she walked past, he found that he couldn't move any farther. He stood rooted to the spot, Gord's words from the wedding running through him.

He had been so preoccupied with Ramsay and the upcoming trek that he had pushed all other concerns to the back of his mind. His work, his training…other things…it had all suffered.

But he could always train again. He could make up the work when he returned. But some things…some things weren't going to keep. And he had to deal with them before he left.

Coming to, he set off toward the kitchens. Given that it was dinner time, his presence wasn't too welcome in the busy setting. He approached Gage, cutting through the various trays carrying supper.

"What do you want, Tiresias?" the head cook asked curtly, his eyes still on the table, his fingers dancing quickly to form pie crusts.

"I want to speak to Mal when she comes back from the Great Hall."

After a few protestations and a guarantee from Tiresias that he wouldn't detain her from her duties for more than five minutes, Gage promised he would send her out when she returned. Tiresias stepped out of the kitchens and waited by the door.

His eyes travelled upward. Try as he might, no image in the stars completely replaced Orion for him. None could bring the same calm. Tiresias lightly scoffed at himself. Maybe that was his mistake. Looking for the same calm, instead of finding something different. Being satisfied with that.

"Tiresias?"

He jumped slightly and turned to see Mal staring at him. It had been a while since someone had snuck up on him. Mal seemed calm enough, but there was something in her eyes. A gleam that frightened and excited him all at once. It had been years since he had seen that in a woman's eyes…

"You wanted to see me?" she prodded.

Tiresias swallowed. "Aye…aye, I did. I…I, um…"

Mal's eyebrows rose. "Aye?"

He sighed, his eyes falling to the ground. "Forgive me, Mal…I know that you don't have a lot of time and I should get to the point, but…honestly, I'm trying to find the right words. I…I don't know what I want to say."

A silence fell on them. Muffled shouts from the kitchens brought him back and forced him to raise his head. Mal was still there, her brown eyes still on him. Waiting…

He took a breath. "I'm leaving tomorrow, Mal. And I'll be gone for a few months, maybe half a year."

She took the information in calmly. "That's quite a long time to be fetching tomes."

Not wanting to disclose the true nature of his absence, he nodded. "It is. And I wanted to say that when I return, I would like to speak to you."

He didn't think it possible, but her eyebrows rose further.

"So, you wanted to speak to me…" she said. "To tell me that you want to speak to me…later?"

Tiresias nodded. "Aye. As stupid as it sounds, that's what I wanted to say."

She nodded slowly, her eyes turning downcast. "And why can't you say what you want to say now?"

"Because I don't know what I want." He sighed. "I can't speak for it."

Mal gave a small smirk, her eyes coming back to Tiresias. She was tough, but he could still see the small bit of hurt. He recognized it from a previous life. A possibility thwarted by his own cowardice.

"I hope you have a safe journey. Farewell, Tiresias," she said, before turning away.

No…no, not this time.

"Mal," he called. "Stop, please."

She did and turned back around. The bit of hurt was gone from her eyes and the gleam was back. A little guarded, but it was back. He stepped forward until he was right in front of her. She stood defiant, not backing away.

For what felt like the millionth time, Tiresias sighed.

"I'm a foreigner. I didn't have anything here in Westeros or anywhere that I could return. When I came to Winterfell, I felt…lucky that I had employment. That I was surrounded by those who could make me forget more and more about my old home, my lost family and all that I was. It's an emptiness you can't imagine…and I thought it was enough to have the library, to have shelter, to have friends and charges and responsibilities…and it's been…well, I didn't think I would need anything else."

The kitchen door opened. Maygen leaned out.

"Mal!" she called. "Gage wants you back."

"I'll be there in two minutes," Mal called back, without looking away from Tiresias. "Gage can wait."

Not looking eager to relay the message, Maygen retreated, dulling the sounds of the kitchen again.

Tiresias swallowed. "I'm sorry, Mal. If I gave any impression that I felt…something more towards you. I'm not of the North, and I was raised to treat everyone well and equally. I didn't think I was acting on anything more than that.

"But, but…" he spoke quickly, seeing the change in her eyes. "Ever since the…um…"

She raised her eyebrows again. "The wedding?"

"Aye," he said. He could feel the heat in his face. "Ever since the wedding, when I…Gord and I had a talk and he brought up a few things. Things that should have been obvious to me."

Another silence fell between him. Despite her calm exterior, Tiresias could sense Mal's heartrate accelerating. She even smelled different. But she waited for him to break it.

"I'm not leaving tomorrow to run away from whatever's happening here." Something clicked into place and his next words came easily. "My work was planned in advance, but I do need the time to think about what I want, and whether it fits with what I need to do."

"With what you need to do?" Mal questioned. "You're a librarian…"

"I'm…" Tiresias sighed. "It's more complicated than that."

Looking into her face, he was tempted to speak of everything. But he couldn't. Not yet. Not ever. He could only ever give an opaque description. That was for the next conversation.

"It's not fair of me to ask this." He wanted more than ever to avert his eyes, but he forced himself to face her. "Unbeknownst to me, you've been patient and I've been…leading you along without knowing it…and I would like some time to figure out what to do, knowing what I know now. Would you…would you…"

"Give you time?" she filled in. "Til you return?"

Tiresias nodded. "Aye. That."

Mal lowered her head. "A few months to half a year?"

"If I'm not back by then…well, I don't know, but I'll try and be back by then."

She gave a light chuckle, raising her head. Her brown eyes were full of light.

The kitchen door opened again. "Mal…" called Maygen, her voice desperate.

"All right, all right, I'm coming!" shouted Mal. She turned back to Tiresias and exhaled.

"All right," she said.

Tiresias nodded. "All right?"

She smiled. "All right."

True to Maygen, she crossed back to the kitchen, pausing at the threshold to look back before closing the door behind her. Tiresias stood rooted to the ground for a few minutes, wondering just what the hell he'd gotten himself into.

Now full of jitters and a nervous energy that had nothing to do with the fear of being tortured and killed by Roose Bolton, he had to exercise. Arya and Jon were already in the yard.

"Hello, Jon. Hello, Arya," he called briskly as he entered the yard.

Arya's eyes narrowed. "Why is your face all red?"

Tiresias exhaled quickly. "Well, Arya, without betraying any secrets, I've discovered that I'm a rusty romantic and I now feel like slapping myself really fucking hard."

Jon and Arya stared at him. Tiresias crumpled.

"Sorry, that was…that was strange. I would appreciate it if you didn't tell Lord or Lady Stark about that...about my um...foul language."

"What foul language?" asked Jon, his eyes full of mirth. "We weren't in the practice yard to hear any foul language. Certainly not Arya. Right, sister?"

"I'm never here," said Arya. Both of them looked at each other, holding for a beat before breaking into laughter.

Tiresias grabbed a practice sword. "Aye, of course."

He let them laugh. It was the least he deserved. He gave the sword a few practice swings becoming walking out to the open area.

"Who's first?" he called.

He said goodbye to Jon and Arya that night in the yard. The spars were swift and as soon as he worked through the jumble of nerves he had after speaking to Mal, he left. The evening passed quickly for him, like a slim candle and soon he found himself sitting in his room, in front of a fire. Waiting for sleep to overtake him.

His conversation with Mal seemed ages ago, instead of just a couple of hours. Here, alone in his room, where the nightmares happened, where his plots were conceived and planned, the threat of the Dreadfort loomed and his anxiety rose to a fever pitch.

His eyes wandered over to the drawer in his desk. With all the information he obsessed over the past month. Crossing over to the desk, he opened the drawer and extracted every scrap of parchment in the drawer.

It took a while to burn everything sufficiently. He caught any remnants left unscathed and fed them to the flames. No one will come across this obsession in his absence. He honestly shouldn't have kept it for as long as he did. But it was done now. All clues concerning his future whereabouts were gone. Leaving only an empty drawer.

Well…not entirely empty. After making sure the last bit of parchment was ash, Tiresias pulled a pouch from the back corner. Loosening the strings, he withdrew a small wide-mouth storage jar. He held it up to the firelight, seeing the dark moss in the water within. He'd had it for a little under a year, ever since his excursion to Barrowton…

Dallan had shown him many dangerous substances in the Neck. And there were few he warned more against than the Resting Wisp. It was a moss that grew just above the water line on roots. A healthy, but rather inadequate snack for lizard lions and a few other creatures in the marsh, it was incredibly lethal for humans to consume. Not painful, if one could ignore the smell and taste. Just too much to bear. In short, one must rest upon consuming it and never wake. Hence, the Resting Wisp.

At the end of the day, it was simple enough to trek south of Barrowton and enter the Neck. He was far more prepared for the swamp than the first time he wandered in there. It took two days of wet hiking before he found a growth of the moss. He carefully harvested a little, placing it in the glass container and proceeded out of the Neck.

He stored the moss with a little of the surrounding water. It was still there. He hadn't cracked the jar since the Neck. He wondered if it was still effective. It should be. Tiresias hoped he wouldn't get the chance to test it. He almost wished he could leave it behind, if only he could keep his promise to Lord Stark…

Can you say with absolute certainty that you won't break? That Bolton won't pull the truth from you along with your skin? That you won't betray the Starks in between your screams?

Tiresias looked in the flames. No, he couldn't be certain. And so he packed the Resting Wisp deep in his bag. For the most dire of circumstances.

He laid in bed awake for a long time, staring at the shadows as they danced on the ceiling, his stomach clenched, a humming anxiety running through him.

Was there ever a time in this life or the one before when he felt more dread? He couldn't think of any. Even going beyond the Wall didn't unnerve him as much as the prospect of meeting those who once ruled as the Red Kings.

His boots clopped loudly as he hiked north on the Kingsroad. He wasn't sure if he regretted his decision not to use a wagon for this journey. And not just because he was carrying a decently-sized tome. He just knew that he couldn't look after a horse for however long this will take.

However, he could have used the imagery of him riding the wagon. Should any questions arise and he be looked at with suspicious eyes, it would have been a boon in his favor; the wandering librarian, Tiresias, couldn't move through the woods quickly with grace. Tiresias couldn't have possibly disappeared into the cold wilderness. How could he have with that huge wagon? Where would he have kept that poor horse?

Those questions managed to solidify his decision and so he walked out of Winterfell in the predawn, under the bewildered eyes of Vics and Halford. The nights he wasn't lucky enough to be near an inn, he spent outside. It wasn't nearly the chore it was years ago when he ventured beyond the Wall. In the time since, he took every opportunity he had to camp as he wandered the North collecting tomes, to go without food stores on occasion, to force his hand at survival.

He also never turned down an opportunity for a hunt. Though he still never cheered at his kills, the shots and mercy killings became more mechanical. It became easier to ignore the fear in an animal's dark eyes. His proficiency did not go unnoticed. Eventually the soldiers started following him and his senses without question. Not that he always led them to the best kills. He let many prized animals go on various hunts before the rest of the group even registered them. It was enough for him to know that he could find the creature if he wanted to. To kill it, should he be forced to.

These outdoor activities turned the wilderness into a second home for him. He felt relatively confident that he could walk into any forest in the North and survive for a long time. Assuming he didn't get too bored. He supposed he would find out in the next few weeks.

He told himself repeatedly that he didn't come to this survivalist mode of thinking just for Ramsay. It was just good to have the knowledge in any scenario, even if he was back in his old world. However, as the years passed, he couldn't help but think of the Lonely Hills and how he would manage that hunting ground. He was already scared shitless of the Boltons; his potential torture and mutilation at their hands…

And rape as well. You're not above a rape.

Yes, that as well. Torture, mutilation, rape…all potential violations that weighed on his mind…

He didn't need to be scared of the surrounding lands as well.

It was early in an afternoon when he finally came to the turn that take him east, past the White Knife and eventually to the Weeping Water. He paused and stayed at the junction for a few minutes, staring at his hands. Birdsong echoed off the trees.

He looked up and sniffed. It was a lovely day.

Grateful for the brief distraction, he sighed and continued to hike. The Kingsroad disappeared behind him. He didn't look back.

If I look back, I am…oh, fuck me.

He laughed loudly, unable to help it. He heard the laughter resonate down the road and he let it. He wouldn't get many opportunities to laugh freely in the future.

After he crossed the White Knife, inns and taverns were increasingly infrequent. However, he made a point to stop at every one he found. He tried his best not to distinguish himself from the other guests. He sat in the corner, hardly spoke and listened. He listened for hours, hoping to hear what he needed to hear in order to make this trip worthwhile.

He didn't though. Most of the locals were silent, punctuated only by the occasional song, the drunken slurring of an ugly farmer or the laughter that could only come from a mean and nasty joke.

Tiresias paid each of his tabs and kept moving eastward, the Lonely Hills beginning to emerge on his left. Even with his eyes, he couldn't see far into the distance. A blanket of perpetual mist clung to the trees. Sounds carried though. As Tiresias walked, his ears picked up echoes from small game. No screams though. And no hunting dogs.

He carried on, not even sure if he would find what he hoped to in these establishments. Eavesdropping would only get him so far, but approaching these strangers and questioning them would make him familiar and he couldn't afford to be familiar to anyone.

On the fourth day since the White Knife, he settled into a small tavern for an ale. It was a miserable brew, but it allowed him to disappear. He fell quiet, almost meditative as he opened his ears to the room. A cobbler was trying to sweet talk the tavern girl in seeing him after closing. Two farmers were whispering urgently to each other. A blacksmith chewed noisily. He could smell ironworks on him.

His stew came, a bowl of indistinguishable brown. It looked worrisome but smelled fine.

"Thank ye," he grumbled as the serving girl scurried away. His Northern accent wasn't bad, but it still felt strange coming from him. He couldn't help but feel that he wasn't fooling anyone. Still as long as he disguised his own voice, it would only be a benefit. A nameless, bearded stranger of the North had to be different from the clean-shaven foreigner, Tiresias.

He would be a fool however, to believe this disguise completely effective. He wasn't Varys after all. Or a Faceless Man. It just had to be enough.

He ate quietly, still listening to the room. But nothing more came. Finally with his drink gone and his bowl finished, he was ready to move on. However, just as he was ready to get up, the whispering from the two farmers caught his attention.

"…bout ready to march off to Last Hearth, I swear I am!"

"Shut the fuck up, Torren!" whispered the older one urgently. "Lower ye voice. Now."

"I am, Terrell! I am," whispered Torren back. "It's Lord Umber's land. It belongs to him. If he knew…if they knew…"

"Yeh wouldn't make it, Torren," said Terrell sadly. "Yeh'd be killed as soon as yeh step into those hills."

"I know those hills, Terrell. Grew up next to them, I did. I know 'em."

Terrell's voice fell and Tiresias strained to catch it. "Lord Bolton knows those hills too. Better than ye. Better than Lord Umber. Might as well be his."

He heard the serving girl just in time. She took his bowl and made to take his mug too, but he caught her hand. He met her wide eyes. A hint of fright in them…

Best avoid this tavern on the way out. If you find a way out. Can't disguise the eyes.

"Another," he muttered. She nodded and disappeared.

He stilled again, focusing on the farmers.

"Barda knew those hills, too" said Torren. He sounded like he was barely containing a sob. "She knew she weren't supposed to wander there. She wouldn't've. She wouldn't…"

"Torren, stop. For ye own sake, stop."

"Yeh believe me, don't yeh? It weren't an accident, like the elder said. It weren't."

"He's trying to protect us. To protect yeh."

The serving girl was back with a pitcher, filling his mug before him. He took a sip without thanking the girl, ignoring the imaginary reprimand for doing so.

"Protect me?" said Torren, his voice hollow. "From wot? He knows it weren't an accident. There been others, I heard. Kell's daughter. Her friend disappeared too. Pretty girl. And Alara…"

"Shut it, Torren." Terrell's whisper was a quiet tempest.

"She vanished half a year ago. They all were supposed to come back west. Barda…she said…"

"I said shut it," growled Terrell. And for a bit, it seemed like Torren might listen. The two men fell silent. Resisting the temptation to look, Tiresias could only imagine that they were staring each other down. That, or Torren crumbling as Terrell looked around to make sure they were not overheard.

Tiresias sipped his ale. The brew stung his nostrils awful, but it kept him focused.

"If what happened to those girls," Terrell said, his voice more gentle than before. "Happened to Barda as well, yeh be best to mourn silently and say nothing. And keep Lauryn and Penny west. Out of sight."

"Lord…Lord Umber…"

"Lords only care for their own. And what keeps round the Dreadfort…that's Lord Bolton's own…"

"And what of me own? Barda…?"

"Dead, me friend. Dead." He heard Terrell lean forward, the bench slightly creaking. "And if yeh bother a Lord with this, any Lord…the rest of ye brood will follow her."

A silence fell between the two farmers. Finally giving into temptation, Tiresias glanced in their direction, scratching his shoulder as a cover. Both bearded, Torren's eyes were locked to his lap, his entire body quivering. Terrell, bald with his remaining hair greyed, eyed him with as much empathy as he could afford.

Which was to say; not much.

Tiresias drank a few more sips, listening a little longer but the men seemed to be done. He didn't move though until they had exited the tavern themselves. He didn't want to disrupt the illusion that he was just part of the surroundings.

The serving girl approached him again. He saw the hesitation in her eyes and did nothing to dispel it. Tiresias was genial and kind to others. This stranger was not.

"Another ale…ser?" she added, not quite sure how to address him.

Tiresias made sure the light was drained from his eyes as he focused on her.

"How much dried beef ye got?" he asked, his voice low.

"I…" She thought about it. "Not sure. I'll ask, but I think we got a few pounds."

"I'll take four pounds if ye got it. If ye don't, I'll take what ye got. I'm going west and I'm stopping 'til I'm out of this shithole."

She nodded vigorously and left immediately. Was that necessary? No, but it would help. If anyone questioned her about a suspect, he will have left a strong impression. And a false trail west.

He stood as she came back with the beef. Taking it from her roughly, he packed it and flipped her a stag. It was certainly more than what he owed. He left before he could see her confused eyes staring at the coin. It was easier to be an asshole than a cheapskate. The girl might be shaken, but she could still eat.

Exiting the inn, he honored his words and turned west, marching back. He planned for this occasion. Every time he had found an inn or a tavern; he backpedaled and hid his quiver and bow. He didn't need people to see him as an archer. Although if his plan worked…his tenuous, risky plan…no one would ever see how Ramsay died. However it did make for strange travel habits as he came from the west, snuck back, only to come east again ten minutes later. However that wouldn't be the case this time.

As he came to his hiding spot and fetched the bow and arrows, he thought on the conversation between Torren and Terrell. He timed this well, to his relief. However wishing that no one would have fallen victim to Ramsay Snow, he knew that the boy would be out in the open now and that is where he would strike.

He slung the bow across his back and stepped onto the road. Looking both ways, he saw no one approaching and heard nothing either. The Dreadfort was another four days away on foot. He couldn't see Ramsay coming out this far out to hunt. He would still be a boy after all. What if he wasn't alone when he hunted?

That would be a question that he could answer later. He turned back north to the Lonely Hills and the perpetual mist that clung to the trees. Spring was coming slowly to this part of the North. This would be his home for the foreseeable future. He would disappear into these woods. He took a final look down the road. The serving girl at the tavern would be the last one to see the hooded, bearded stranger.

He took a deep breath, held it and then released it, as he began to hike into the forest, making his own path. Making his own way was a slow process, but soon the road disappeared behind him.

Before he got too deep into the hills, he found a small clearing and selected a tree that he could recognize later. He dug a small hole and reached into his rucksack for a bundle. This bundle contained the tome from Castle Black and the letters between Maester Luwin and Wolkan agreeing on the tomes to be donated to the library. It also contained a small armband, a white one with a green escutcheon and a grey direwolf on the front. It would have been rather inconvenient of him to have carried a huge banner with the Stark sigil as he traveled around the North these past few years. So instead, Lord Stark instructed Sansa to embroider the armband. So that he might travel in relative safety. Or at least indicate that he was conducting Winterfell business.

Most of the time he didn't wear it, only strapping it around his arm as he approached a keep. Wearing it while traveling alone was only announcing oneself for a robbery.

Nevertheless, it was a good idea to bury this armband for now. If he were to be killed or captured with it, while trying to hunt the seemingly-innocent bastard of Lord Bolton, it would be a mess that House Stark couldn't escape. So it was buried with his library business. As he smoothed the dirt and roughed it again to camouflage it with the forest floor, he was no longer Tiresias, the librarian of Winterfell. He was just a nameless killer.

He hoped he could hold to that under torture. He doubted it though.

Better reason not to get caught, he told himself as he stood, hitching the rucksack over his shoulder. The mist was not so strong that it eschewed the sun. Orientating himself, he set off to the northeast. The relief knowing he was right about Ramsay had disappeared. A solid weight had attached itself to his feet. It didn't lessen as he trudged on.