23 Chapter 23

He was determined not to lose count of the days. If ever he came out of this, he would need a solid alibi, and those fell apart on shaky information. He repeated his count to himself as he went to sleep and again as he woke. As he walked. As he tracked.

Three sennights of wandering had led Tiresias to a patch of forest that seemed like all others he had seen in the Lonely Hills. But this one…this one had signs. Old signs, sure. It wasn't like these girls disappeared every sennight. But it was apparent that something malevolent had occurred in this neck of the woods.

Perhaps it was paranoia, but he swore he heard a distant raven caw as he came upon this area. Maybe it spurned him to look closer at the ground, the trees, to sniff a little longer.

He scoured for a long while, trying to keep patient. This mission was going to succeed only if he allowed it to take its time. If he avoided hunters and other travelers, if he searched painstakingly through every part of these godforsaken hills, he would succeed.

At least that's what he told himself at the end of every day, when he settled in for the night. He lit no fires. He wasn't going to give anyone that advantage. A sennight into these hills, he lightened his step, leaving little imprint on the ground. He buried his feces. When he burrowed for roots and vegetables, he covered up the disturbance. The dried beef that he had been saving was stretched thin.

His stomach growled as he began combing the area. Not a bad area to hunt. He estimated he was only a day's ride away from the Dreadfort. Not a terrible distance for a young boy to bring a young girl out for a supposed outing in the forest. The son of a lord could be enticing, even if he was a bastard. He could woo. He could charm. The girl wouldn't know what was happening until it was too late.

When she would start to run…Tiresias' eyes narrowed as he came to a bush with broken branches. He was in the middle of a natural cul-de-sac, the natural trail he followed led him here. If a young girl ran into here and saw no obvious way out...in her panic, she could hurtle through the bushes, breaking through.

Then again, any hunted and scared animal could do that. Tiresias went to the broken branches and knelt, studying the ground. He couldn't see any obvious footprints. The last hunt had been too long ago…but the ground did seem to be disturbed. And if only one animal had struggled through, it wouldn't have perturbed the dirt this much. There were indents that hooves or paws couldn't make.

And they certainly wouldn't leave any cloth behind either…

Tiresias had missed it the first time he looked, but there was a small figment of fabric hanging from the branches. Either dyed brown or browned by the dirt, he couldn't tell. And it was obviously torn off, with remnants of threads barely hanging on.

He dropped the cloth and went through the bushes, following the trail as best he could. The disturbed ground continued. Once he saw it, it was impossible to miss. The path led to a series of trees with deep roots that stuck out, making it impossible to run smoothly through. Tiresias halted at the last root, staring down the ditch below.

He jumped down, landing lightly and knelt, his fingers running over the surface. This ground was more disturbed than the previous dirt he had been following. There was even a dark brown that he didn't recognize at first. Only when he broke the dirt off and brought to his nostrils, did he identify the scent: dried blood. Not a lot, but it was there. He also found more tiny scrapes of cloth, a few strands of long hair and when he looked a little further, dried dog stool.

Standing up, he looked back on the path with the raised roots.

Whoever was running, being chased…even if they're surprised by the first root, they automatically begin to jump them. And when they came to this one…

Sprained ankles. Scrapes. Falling down and hitting their heads. And then the dogs got them.

Maybe not for a few. The ditch was not too deep and should anyone look ahead and anticipate it, they might brace themselves. Keep running. Be a good sport and earn the respect of a young psychopath…

Tiresias shuddered. He knew it was probably a good idea to continue to explore, see if there were any more signs, but he didn't want to. And he didn't need to. He had found what he was looking for.

A sudden thought came to his mind.

What if he comes today?

He checked the sun and dismissed the thought. If there was a hunting party planned, it would have occurred in the early morning. He suspected so, at least.

Why would hunting a young girl be different than any other game for young Ramsay?

A fierce stinging came to his eyes and he had difficulty breathing for a minute. The smells were coming too strongly now that he knew what had happened here. Blood, shit, tears…did tears even have a scent?

He quickly climbed out and walked back, careful to avoid the roots. He sat on the last one, the exhaustion over the past three sennights finally coming over him. He breathed, held it and released, the exhalation coming out in a shudder. Eventually he calmed down.

There was a small robin who sang nearby to the north. Allowing himself a brief reprieve, he sipped some water and chewed an extra sliver of dried beef. A little celebration was in order, even it was a morose one.

And it wouldn't get easier. The next task was apparent. He had to find the beginning of the chase, where Ramsay set them loose. There was hardly any overcast for the first time in weeks and the sun's position was easy to spot. The disturbed path ventured to the southeast. He wasn't surprised. But he had to be even more careful now.

He had to laid his trap carefully and live inconspicuously in this neck of the woods until the bastard came again with another prize. And that could take sennights, perhaps even months. In the meantime, soldiers, hunters, poachers, trappers and all others…no one could see him. He would have to work quietly. At night when no one wandered.

Sitting on a root, he enjoyed the birdsong; savoring it for a few more minutes before standing and getting back to work.

Tiresias stood, balanced on the branch in the predawn. The trees here made for useful climbing and this was his favorite perch. Before the sun rose, all the surrounding hills were quiet. An offhand noise would echo loudly for him to hear. A mating call from a skylark. A low wind from the east. Or a scream from a young girl.

Nothing he had witnessed in the past month left any doubt in his mind that Ramsay would hunt in the early morning. He had found this perch during the first sennight. At the hour of the wolf, he woke and climbed the tree. He got to know it very well in the dark. With him, he brought his rucksack, tying it to the tree. His weapons laid close; his bow across his back, the dagger in its sheath…

He held vigil every morning in this tree, shielded from hunter's eyes and gifted with a view that he clung to closely. He had tracked the pathway that the girls were guided to. It went on for a mile, a little over. He guessed right that it began in the southeast. A part of him wanted to go further and see how just far away the Dreadfort actually was. However that was a risk he wasn't prepared for. What if he was seen? He was waiting in a remote area of the Lonely Hills. Where Ramsay wouldn't have any witnesses to his violent delights. He hoped for the same advantage when he dealt with the boy himself.

Was that too much to hope? He wondered if Ramsay brought any others with him when he hunted the girls? He was still a young boy after all. Perhaps Roose would be concerned for the safety of his only heir and send along a guard to watch coldly as Ramsay set off his dogs loose. Was that the case?

He turned the question over and over again in his mind for the past month. There honestly wasn't much else to think about. Besides a pair of brown eyes. And he didn't want her near this part of the North...

In the end, he decided to risk it and assume the boy came alone. There was no reason that Ramsay wouldn't have known these hills already at his age. If so, he wouldn't require a guardian. And even if Roose Bolton was fully aware of his bastard's lethal leisure, would he go so far as to endorse it? Send his guards up with the boy?

He didn't think so. Ramsay seemed to only hunt with his companions. Reek, the first one, in the novels. Myranda in the show. And he doubted that he would be bringing Myranda along, not for a few more years.

A small part of him knew that this was extremely stupid. He was counting on quite of a number of coincidences for this to come off right. But a stronger part of him kept waiting patiently every morning. He couldn't really explain it to himself except to say that it smelled right. He was certain. It was the same small certainty that allowed him to meet Karsi, to move against Petyr and to find the long path to Howland when he was Clark and newly arrived in this country. He knew it by the cool breeze in the morning. The pure forestry filling his nostrils. The stale hints of death and fear along the path. Something was going to happen here.

However as the hours passed and the sun came fully into the sky, he accepted that it wouldn't be this morning. Taking a few more minutes to enjoy the view, he sipped from his waterskin, preparing to climb down and pass the rest of the day.

As he reached for his rucksack though, he heard something. It was faint, but it was definitely not something that he had heard in the past month. And it was coming from the southeast, louder and louder.

He turned his ears toward the coming noise. A dog barked…then another one…before he heard a young scream…

Tiresias' heart constricted as he breathed, a shudder running through him. He let it pass. He had time. It sounded about a half mile away…little over…

He's just a boy, Tiresias. He's not a man just yet. If he's alone, if he has no men…you'll get him.

Maybe he was too hungry and delirious to be scared beyond the Wall, but this was something else. Four seasons of bastardy can leave quite an impression, it seems.

The screams were now more prominent than the dog barks. Coming closer and closer. Sticking to the same path, apparently.

He climbed down a branch and hid behind the other side of the tree, shielded from upward eyes if they looked this way.

They'll herd her into the cul-de-sac and force her through in a few minutes. She'll tripping over the roots soon.

Extracting an arrow, he didn't nock it, but he kept it close. He didn't want to close his eyes. Didn't want to hear any more. Didn't need any more nightmares.

But he had to. Everything he had, he must use now. Ramsay could not live a day longer in this world. Besides, with what he had to do today to make that happen…there was no escaping fresh nightmares.

He shut his eyes, sniffing and opening his ears. The wind was carrying fresh scents strange to his usual morning here; the stink of dog and sweat. It also carried the screams clearer, the barks, as well as something new…

"You're almost free, Rosie! Go! Keep running!"

He knew that voice. It may have been a little younger, pitched a little higher…but he knew it.

A frenzied set of footsteps was hurrying into the cul-de-sac, pounding into the forest floor. They stopped and began to pace frantically back and forth. A shriek of desperate frustration echoed through the trees. Tiresias didn't need his improved ears to hear it.

"Oh nooo…girls!" called the voice. "Rosie seems to be trapped! Is she? Is this the end? Or will she find a way through?"

"P-Please!" sobbed Rosie. "Please, just let me go…please, let me g-go!"

"Not my choice, now, Rosie! The girls are famished. They won't stop now."

Rosie was now steadily weeping, her feet staggering as she circled the cul-de-sac. Tiresias gripped his bow.

Not yet. He needs to come through. He needs to come through.

"Don't despair, Rosie!" yelled the boy. He was coming closer too. "I'll help you. Go to the left. Squeeze through the bushes. The path continues!"

Tiresias couldn't blame the girl as she immediately attack the bushes for that small opening. When they're the most scared, people will listen to anything that will prolong their life. If they believe that they can still make it. He wondered if Ramsay already knew that before today, or whether he discovered it as he came upon the cul-de-sac and saw the last of Rosie squeezing through the bushes.

He opened his eyes. He didn't need to hear anything more. Rosie had pushed through and was running his direction. She stumbled over the first root, her cries of pain combining with her petrified sobs. Tiresias crouched down, prepared to move as she drew nearer.

She couldn't have been more than fourteen, dark-blonde. She didn't even register him up above her as she ran past him. Her dress was already messy and a little torn. A bark echoed loudly from the bushes, causing her to look back and scream. Her tears shined on her face.

Tiresias heard the dogs come through and continue to chase. Rosie turned back and ran, leaping over the roots. She was coming closer and closer to the ditch.

Someone else squeezed through the bushes as well.

"You're almost free, Rosie! Keep going! Run!"

Rosie obeyed Ramsay's instructions to the last. She sped up on the few remaining roots, leaping over the last one with abandon. Tiresias saw her tumble down, her surprised scream ending abruptly with a loud thump.

The two dogs streaked past his tree in a frenzy, navigating each root expertly. A rather tall boy with a mop of dark black hair moved forward. He carried a bow with a full quiver and a dirk at his side. Ramsay hurried past his tree, not bothering to look up.

"Rosie? Rosie? Are you there?" called Ramsay, his jog slowing. "Are you all finished, Rosie? So soon? Already?"

The dogs reached the ditch. They leapt down, out of sight, not waiting for the command to feed. Rosie began to scream dully. Tiresias began to climb down as quickly as he could.

"No! No!" yelled Ramsay. He could hear the boy sprinting to the ditch. "Bad dogs! Bad dogs! Heel! Heel!"

Tiresias jumped the last eight feet, wincing at the landing, a little louder than he would have liked. None of the concerned parties seemed to notice though. He gripped his bow and turned onto the path, running quietly after the boy.

Ramsay was at the edge of the ditch now, yelling. The sounds of the dogs' attack had ceased, though the pained groans continued. He picked up a stone and threw it. One of the dogs yelped.

"Stupid bitch! You couldn't wait, eh?" he panted. "You don't eat 'til I say. Now, look at her. She's ruined, Barda. You and Alara. You bloodied her before I was ready."

He spat, shaking his head at the ditch.

"Stupid little bitches…"

Tiresias was thirty feet away now. He didn't trust his silent feet any further and raised his bow, arrow nocked.

But he didn't fire, not yet. He had to see…

He swallowed. "Ramsay!" he called.

The boy jumped and turned, looking at Tiresias like he couldn't quite believe he was there. His pale blue eyes shining with bewilderment.

The same eyes…

Tiresias released. His arrow landed well, despite the small target. Ramsay crumpled to the ground, convulsing as he tried to grip the arrow now stuck in his chest.

A sharp barking began in the ditch. Tiresias reached for two more arrows. He didn't have much time.

Alara and Barda leapt out of the ditch. One muscled hound paused to sniff Ramsay's jerking body. The other bolted straight for the mysterious assailant, her eyes bright. She was still ready to go, eager to hunt.

Tiresias held for this one. Too compact and agile for a long shot. He waited until he could see the white in her dark eyes and fired. The arrow lodged in her shoulder and she yelped, but continued to move, limping wildly. He dropped the bow and arrow, drawing his dagger.

He barely had it out in front, before she was on him. She landed on the blade, landing only a few scratches before collapsing into dead weight. Throwing her to the side, he saw the other hound beginning to move and the bow was a little farther than he would have liked.

Running to the bow, he realized the dagger was still in the other dog. There was no time though. She was ten feet away when he gripped the bow. He nocked right as she jumped, opening her mouth to bite…

He fired straight into her mouth and she fell, landing at his feet. She still moved though, her mouth biting down jaggedly, trying to remove it from her throat. Heart pounding, he staggered over to the first dead dog to remove the dagger. He walked back over to finish her. He stuck the dagger in and both canines laid still.

He stood, breathing deeply, turning to the end of the path, where Ramsay laid. The boy had gripped his bow and was attempting to nock it, reaching for his quiver.

Tiresias walked over, letting his feet fall heavy on the ground for the first time since entering these hills. He swallowed his sick and came to the boy's side. He kicked away the quiver and Ramsay looked at him with such loathing.

Wiping his dagger and sheathing it, he knelt down. He reached over the boy's belt to the dirk. Might as well not leave a wound that matched his own dagger. Ramsay reached over and grabbed his hand in a weak grip. Tiresias removed it gently, holding the boy's hand, while his other hand withdrew the dirk and held it to Ramsay's throat.

Ramsay looked between him and the dirk, his young rage now mixed with confusion.

Focus on the eyes. Without those eyes, he's just a boy…

Tiresias exhaled through his nose and pushed the dirk in. Blood pooled onto the dirt. He felt the struggle in Ramsay's hand drain quickly. He just held on. Finally, the young Snow stilled, his pale blue eyes fixed on his mysterious assassin.

A quiet fell in the forest, punctuated only by birdsong. It was far away though. Tiresias saw his fingers reach over to the boy's throat. No pulse. It was proof. Proof that he was gone. Along with his empty eyes. He placed his hand over the boy's mouth and felt no breath.

A low groan emitted from the ditch. He dropped Ramsay's hand (he actually forgot he had been holding it), and placed his dirk back, wiping it on the boy's shirt beforehand. He walked to the ditch and stepped in, kneeling next to the young girl.

Rosie stared at him in fear, her whole body shaking, although he suspected that was more due to shock. Her right hand was mangled and bloody. Her left ankle too. There were a few shallow bites at her collar bone too. The dogs did quite a bit with what little time they had.

She swallowed. "Is…is he…?" she asked. Her throat was parched.

"He's dead. His dogs too."

Relief swept over her face. The pain didn't leave though and it made for an odd expression. Something between a laugh and sob echoed out of her.

Tiresias looked back at Ramsay's body, over the ditch at the dogs, lying still. He turned back to Rosie.

"Did he have any friends with him? Any others following him? Or was it just him and the dogs?"

Rosie shook her head. "Just…just….h-he didn't have. I s-shouted…when we left…"

Tears streamed down her face. Tiresias ignored the urge to wipe them away.

"They heard m-me…saw me…I-I know they did. B-but they let him t-t-take me…"

Cold ran through him.

No...no, you don't feel cold.

He knelt next to her. "They saw you with him?"

She nodded and swallowed. "Aye...aye, they...they just...I was alone with him."

Her crying turned silent. Tiresias just sat and let her weep for several seconds unabated. He eyed her injuries. Even with his limited medical knowledge, he knew that they were not fatal. If he bandaged the bleeding and carried her, a healer could take care of her. She would be scarred for life, but she would live.

As that echoed in his mind, he withdrew the glass container from his pocket and carefully extracted the Resting Wisp. He pulled the moss in half.

You can't leave a witness to this.

"Rosie's your name?"

She nodded, beginning to tremble. He held his hand above her mouth.

"I imagine that you're in quite a bit of pain, now, Rosie. If you chew this and swallow, it will dull the pain and it won't hurt so much when I carry you out of here."

He swallowed a lump in his mouth. "All right?"

She opened her mouth wide as an answer, desperate for any relief. Tiresias took a breath.

"I'm warning you. It tastes awful."

He placed the moss in gently. He guessed about the taste, going purely off the smell. It was truly awful and Rosie's eyes instantly watered as her face twisted. She persisted though and after a few seconds, she swallowed.

Knowing she wouldn't need it soon, he brought his waterskin to her mouth. She drank in earnest, before he lowered the skin.

"It's going to be a few minutes before it takes effect. Just keep breathing. You'll feel it soon."

He stood up. Rosie's eyes widened again as she shook her head.

"No…" she mumbled, shaking her head jerkily. "D-don't…don't leave…me…"

"My pack is back a ways." He didn't want to see this. He was too weak. "I'm going to need some bandages. Just keep breathing. Nice and slow. I'll be back soon."

He stepped out of the ditch and made it only a few feet past Ramsay before he stilled.

You fucking goddamn coward.

The preparations were already made. He had time. He owed it to her.

He hesitated for a few seconds more. With a fortifying breath, he continued to walk away, leaving Rosie to die alone.

Aye…aye, I fucking am.

According to Dallan, the poison is remarkably merciful. Dulling one's body and mind before shutting it down. Avoiding the pain and the inevitable panic that accompanies death. Rosie would be unconscious before she knew it. He hoped that was true. For Rosie now. Later for him, should he be caught.

Determined to avoid that fate, he got to work. He came to the dogs and extracted the arrows. He managed to save the one in the dog's shoulder, but the one that shot through the mouth, he couldn't. He broke the arrow to remove it, deciding to dispose of it a safe distance away.

He climbed the tree and retrieved the rucksack. He took a careful glance at the sun. It was still early in the morning. He was grateful for Ramsay's timing. Even if an investigating party should be sent from the Dreadfort tonight when the boy didn't return, he had the whole day to work and get away.

After descending the tree and taking a trembling sip from his waterskin, he knew that enough time had passed. He walked back past the dogs to the bastard by the ditch. He stepped down and knelt next to Rosie.

The girl's eyes were still and dull. Her panic passed. No fear on her face.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. His utterance rang hollow and he felt stupid immediately.

He reached over and rolled her eyelids down. He didn't want to see her eyes. Even when dulled, there was something like relief in them. She thought she had been rescued.

From the hands of someone who would kill you for fun into the hands of those would kill you for who knows what…this one's on you, Tiresias. She'll join the hanging whore from Gulltown. It'll be her glassy eyes underneath that dark red hair…

It was a surprise to him that he had already stood up. He was too busy focusing on the corpse. He turned away from Rosie, to Ramsay lying above her, at the edge of the ditch. Taking a deep breath, he refocused…as much as he could...

Bending down and picking the boy up, he carried the bastard out of the rooted area. To the next stage of the plan.

This one was different from Petyr. From Craster. From any other future targets. He didn't want this one to be found. Ramsay would have to disappear. His first plan was a concealed fire. Burn the bastard in the ground beyond all recognition and bury the evidence.

However, he didn't want to risk it. The Dreadfort would hear of the mysterious smoke in the forest, right where their Lord's bastard was playing. The fire would probably be too large for one person's campfire, raising questions about what exactly Lord Bolton's brood was up to. Soldiers might be sent. Even if the Dreadfort is too far to see the smoke, an outpost would inform them of the irregular activity.

Also he couldn't risk the roots underneath catching fire, igniting the forest in one giant inferno.

So he simply took out the burning. Which left the burial.

Careful not to trip while carrying the dead sadist, he exited the rooted area and walked another fifteen yards to his great project. Every day, after his morning vigil was complete, he would take a stick and dig. Over the past month in this area, every day, just a little more. He stored the dirt he took carefully, so it didn't collapse. The hole was now deep enough that he packed himself a little earthen step inside to climb out. Over seven feet deep. He finished it a sennight ago.

He came to the grave and tossed Ramsay in unceremoniously. Not out of anger. He just had to work fast. He climbed in to adjust the body, trying to ignore his hands trembling, trying to ignore that Ramsay's eyes were not closed and they seemed to follow him…

He's dead! Tiresias told himself furiously. He's dead, now quit fucking around. You're not finished!

Climbing out, he headed back to the rooted pathway, past Rosie's still body. The dogs were next.

He picked them up one at a time, lifting them by the legs, careful not to get blood on his clothing. If he dragged them, it would lead any tracker straight to the grave. He deposited the dogs as casually as he did Ramsay; dropping the bodies and jumping in to adjust them.

He wanted to take his time, delay the next task as much as he could. Unfortunately, time was against him. He needed to move.

If it wasn't for her injuries, Rosie would have looked rather peaceful, sleeping on the forest floor. Resisting the urge to brush the hair from her eyes, he picked her up and carried her gently to the deep grave. There was no lowering her smoothly. She hit the dogs, coming to an awkward position. He climbed in and adjusted her, on her back, hands folded. He climbed out quickly and exhaled, his whole body shaking. He didn't realize that he was holding his breath down there.

After collecting himself, he turned his gaze down. All concerned were deep enough to avoid the nose of any hunting dog. Rosie looked peaceful again, resting on her bed of canines. Tiresias couldn't even see Ramsay anymore. But he was there and she would be with him until they both became food for the worms.

Tiresias sighed. He was exhausted and his day wasn't even halfway done.

"I'm sorry, Rosie," he murmured. "I'm sorry."

Before depositing the dirt, he traced their path back all the way back to the natural cul-de-sac and collected all the evidence he could find; fragments of torn cloth, Ramsay's bow and quiver, even a strand of Rosie's dark blonde hair. He threw these objects into the grave on top of Rosie.

Finally, after a draught from his waterskin, he began to pile the dirt back into the hole. The dogs disappeared first and then Rosie, her serene face unchanging as she was smothered by the earth. He looked away as he covered the last bit of her. It was too much to watch her disappear.

Pushing the rest of the dirt in was the easy part. Now he had to disguise a very conspicuous part of the forest floor. It was a lot more involved than his first time burying evidence, years ago in the Riverlands. He wondered if any of Clark's possessions were still intact…

He shook his head, the distraction unwelcomed. He stamped the loose dirt down and used his digging stick to blend the edges with the rest of the forest floor, dragging it back and forth. After ten minutes, it left him with a flat, but very bare ground surface.

He prepared for this though. Walking to the tree cover, he grabbed his cloak and dragged it to the site. Not needing the cloak for warmth, when he started to excavate the grave, he removed the top layer first and placed the plants, leaves and other debris on his cloak for the final phase of the burial. He couldn't keep everything intact, but there was enough material for his purposes. At least he hoped.

Dressing a grave took longer than he would have liked, but he knew he couldn't rush this. He deposited the larger materials, replanting some a few weeds and a fern, hoping the roots would take again. Afterwards, he tossed the leaves, needles and sticks on top, trying his damnedest to make it look like an undisturbed floor forest. Not the burial site of the Bastard of the Dreadfort or a young girl named Rosie who vanished into these hills...

Tiresias wished he had never learned her name. He hated Ramsay for shouting it during the chase.

He walked carefully around his work, trying to see it from every angle. Was there anything that would tip off a tracker? Anything that looked constructed?

Maybe, but that was probably due to his own knowledge of what laid beneath. He couldn't cite anything wrong with it. In fact, it looked…good. As good as he was going to get. Leaving it would be the hardest part. Trusting that it would work.

Based on the sun, it was still well before noon. It was time to take advantage and haul ass. Forcing himself to turn away, he collected his cloak, shaking it free of any remaining debris, folding it for his pack. He returned to the rooted path, where he shouldered his rucksack and hitched the bow across his back.

He took one last look around. Leave no trace. Young Clark learned that in Scouting. It seemed that way here. He never lit a fire. He buried all his waste, actually using the empty grave as a latrine for the past week. All he brought in; he was carrying out.

Good luck finding him, Roose, you dead-eyed cretin. And your dogs…Rosie, too.

Something came to his throat and he swallowed it back down. He couldn't be sick here. It was too close. It would clue someone in.

In on one, two, three, four and hold…one, two, three four and out on one, two, three and four…

He breathed as such for the next minute. When he settled, he felt light and heavy at the same time and the birdsong seemed louder than before.

With a final fortifying breath, he exited the rooted pathway and began to trek west. He didn't run, but he definitely didn't stroll either. Putting as much as space as possible between him and this crime scene was just as important, if not more so, than dressing the grave.

He hiked for the rest of the day, only pausing briefly to refill his waterskin. By sundown, he was confident he had hiked more than twenty miles. He wished he could say with certainty that it was enough for the night, that searchers wouldn't ride this far. But as he paused and felt his knees buckle, he knew he didn't have a choice. He had to rest. Trudging to a tree with enough cover, he sat with his back against the trunk.

As his eyes grew heavier, his fingers gripping the hilt of his dagger, he smelled the moisture in the air and thanked his good fortune. When the rain fell, it was light, but it would stay consistent throughout the night. He knew it.

If there was something he felt uneasy about, it was the blood that fell that day. From Ramsay, the dogs. From Rosie. He turned it up with his foot but it was still there. A rainfall would disguise it further. Muddy everything. Including the grave. It would all just be mud.

It wouldn't touch Tiresias though. He was well-covered by the tree. There was no rain that would hide the tears he would shred that night.

After two days of hiking, he came to the clearing again. He unearthed the bundle and checked its contents. Both the tome and the letters were well-protected. Once he packed them again, he found a river west. He looked, listened and smelled to confirm that he was truly alone before transforming himself.

For the first time in two and a half months, he wetted his razor and shaved, rinsing the blade in the running water after each stroke. Afterwards, he stripped and washed, using the soap to rid himself of the dirt from his long vigil. As he dressed, he only felt the filth on his clothes more, but that would help him not to look too clean.

After filling his skin, he trekked west for an hour more before turning south. Before he knew it, he was upon the road, west of the last inn before he disappeared. No one was about and he turned west, ready to be done with this part of the North. For now, at least.

You're leaving Roose Bolton alive. You don't know what he'll do.

That thought weighed on his mind, but he pushed it to the side. He would deal with Roose another day, if he could figure out a way to do so…

But for now, he had enough of death. The image of Rosie disappearing under the dirt came to his mind and he retched. Doubled over, he dry-heaved for a bit, thankful that his stomach was mostly empty for the first time in a while. He had been going on mushrooms for the past two days.

It was after sundown when he came to an inn. It was a small place and he hesitated before he approached. What if he was recognized? What if the innkeeper connected him to the taciturn, bearded stranger from two months ago?

His stomach growled and that was answer enough. He had to eat.

Apparently though he had little to worry about. The innkeeper's eyes barely glanced at him as he paid. And why should he? He was friendly Tiresias. Friendly, but preferred to be alone. He sat by the fire and tried not to eat too fast. Couldn't look like he was living off the land before today. He chewed his mutton slowly, his eyes rolling over the other patrons. A farmer and his taller son. A couple of sellswords. A large man sat in the corner. Judging by his smell, he worked as a stone mason.

Nobody spoke in hushed tones. Nobody seemed scared. Nobody seemed to realize that Lord Bolton had lost his bastard mere days ago. The word had not seemed to spread.

For the first time since he fed Rosie the deadly moss, he allowed himself to smile slightly. He could walk out of here unscathed. Especially if they were this late to discover the boy was missing. He might be all right.

The next morning, he treated himself to an extra hour of sleep and an extra sausage at breakfast. Not so much for a celebration. It was more for additional substance. He was still relatively weak from the poor nutrition in those hills. If only he could have lit a fire just one night, cooked some game…

He shook his head. Determined to have no regrets. About any of it. If he were to make it back to Winterfell, he couldn't get bogged down with regrets.

He finished his breakfast and walked outside, sniffing the cool morning air. He stood on the inn's step, taking in the view. It was a grey morning, but there was a stark beauty about it. It was common in the North, even in the territory ruled by its most sociopathic highborn.

Setting his pack down, he stretched, feeling his joints pop. He crossed his arm across his chest and held it, feeling the burn as he gazed east.

His breath hitched. A group of four soldiers on horses were trotting up the road. The back one carried a pink banner with a flayed man.

Tiresias ignored his first instinct; to run and run fast. No, that wouldn't do at all. He dropped his arm as casually as he could and observed them. They stopped the stonemason from last night as he travelled down the road, all parties coming to a halt.

He couldn't hear the conversation from the steps of the inn. Not even with his ears, but the stonemason's shrugs and headshakes were enough for him to intuit. It was now apparent to him that he really needed a reason to be in this area. And in the back of his mind, he knew that the tome and letters would not be enough.

The stonemason pointed to the inn and the soldiers began to trot toward it.

Tiresias stepped from the inn and strode toward the stable, his heart in his throat.

Walk, damn it. Don't run. Don't even walk fast.

He entered the stable, just in time to see the farmer and his son leading a mule from a stall. That will do.

"Hello, there," he said, stepping to them. The farmer and his son simply stared at him, without saying anything.

"I'll cut right down to it. I'm assuming you have a wagon or a cart with that mule. Well, I need both. Right now and I'm willing to pay you for them. With good coin."

The son stared at his father, incredulity in his eyes. The farmer simply stared at Tiresias. The silence dragged on. He could hear the soldiers leaving their horses out front and entering the inn. Thankful for the small mercy, he pressed on.

"I'm in a hurry," he said. "And I need an animal and transport. If you don't want it, say so now, so I could inquire further in the inn."

The expression in the farmer's face didn't change. He continued to meet Tiresias' eyes as he held out his gnarled hand. Tiresias took out his purse and pressed two gold dragons in the farmer's hand. The son's eyes widened, but the farmer remained impassive, continuing to stare.

Tiresias sighed and removed another gold dragon from his purse. He held it before the farmer.

"Will this sway your mind?" he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. He was the one with the purse. But he was also all out of dragons…

It made for a long moment. Finally the farmer reached out and took the dragon. He observed the three gold pieces in his palm, before looking to his son and giving a nod. The son trudged over with the mule and handed the reins over.

"Pleasure doing business with you," said Tiresias. He clicked his tongue and the mule came. It was a gentle creature. He patted his back. Strong too.

"Name's Marlee."

He looked back to see the farmer staring at him. "The mule. Marlee's his name. He's been fed."

Tiresias nodded. "I assume his wagon's the one with the grass hay. His feed?"

The farmer blinked. He supposed that was an affirmative. The son stood more mute than his father. Refused to be made uncomfortable by their silence, he nodded politely and led Marlee out to the wagons.

He tossed his rucksack and bow in the wagon and hitched Marlee with a relative ease. It wasn't his first time riding with a mule. He was just adjusting the throat lash when he heard the door to the inn open. Hearing the armor clink, he kept his eyes on the wagon, determined to appear relaxed. Though his heart pounded louder and louder, the closer they came.

"You there. What's your name?"

He swallowed his spit and turned to see the Bolton soldiers. They were on foot, their horses still tied by the inn. They seemed at ease though.

He patted Marlee. "Name's Tiresias. How can I help you, gentlemen?"

The head soldier stepped forward, his eyes scanning him and the wagon. "What's your business in these parts?"

"I'm the librarian from Winterfell. I've come to transport some tomes there from the Dreadfort."

"You're headed to the Dreadfort?"

"Aye."

One of the men in the back sneezed. Morning fever. The head soldier's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Is Lord Bolton expecting you?"

Tiresias shrugged. "Honestly, I don't think so. However, Maester Wolkan and I, or rather Maester Luwin of Winterfell, have corresponding for the past year and I've an open invitation to visit the Dreadfort library and review its contents. If I may…"

He gestured to the wagon. "I have a letter from Maester Wolkan. Would you like to read it yourself?"

He stopped a wince as soon as he said that. Years into this world, he forgot that literacy was not widespread. He may have just insulted this soldier deeply. However, he waited calmly, his face growing a little warm. Finally the soldier nodded.

"Let's see it."

Tiresias reached over and pulled the rucksack out, careful not to make any sudden movements. He pulled out the folded letter and handed it to the head soldier, who immediately passed it to the sneezing man in the back.

"Rawls," he stated, the silent order well understood. Rawls opened the letter and began to read, his eyes furrowed in concentration. The head soldier continued to regard him. Tiresias resisted the urge to smile friendly.

Just wait patiently. You're all right.

"How long you been travelling?" asked the head soldier.

Tiresias shrugged. "Hard to say. Couple of months, at least. I visited the Wall first. Trekked down here. That was no small journey. I passed the White Knife two days ago."

It was only two days to the White Knife from here. He knew that, but that was by foot. What was the time by wagon…?

Too late to second guess it now. It was already out. The head soldier didn't react either way.

Rawls finally lifted his head and handed to the letter back to his command. "It's as he says, Captain."

The captain handed the letter back. Tiresias folded it and placed it back in the rucksack. The captain nodded.

"Safe travels," he stated, before walking off. Tiresias tossed the rucksack back on the wagon, before calling out to him.

"Excuse me, Captain," he called. "Just to confirm; I'm only five days out from the Dreadfort, aye?"

The captain didn't turn back around to shout. "Aye, five days! Keep to the road."

He and the rest of the soldiers unhitched their horses, mounted them and kicked them into a trot. The damp ground squelched as they turned onto the road, heading west. Not a single one gave Tiresias a second look.

He stood with the reins in his hands. Finally he shook himself and climbed aboard. Clicking his tongue, he led Marlee to the road before pulling the reins, halting him. He looked to the west. He could still see the soldiers trotting in the distance. They paused before an old woman and conversed with her as well.

The west was out. He had stated to multiple Bolton soldiers that he was in the area, that he intended to visit the Dreadfort. That captain had a good memory. He could tell. The quick escape he dreamed of was gone.

He gritted his teeth, his breath hissing as he exhaled.

"Shit."

The mule was patient and let him stew, shaking his head to ward off the flies. However, Tiresias knew he couldn't dawdle.

He clicked his tongue and turned the wagon east.