24 Chapter 24

Tiresias couldn't remember the exterior of the Dreadfort from the show. He had studied a few renderings in the Winterfell library. But as with the Wall, it did little to prepare him when he rounded a bend in the Weeping Water one morning and saw the fortress for himself.

He exhaled quickly. "That's a damn big castle, Marlee," he muttered to his traveling companion. He had taken to speaking to the mule more than he anticipated. It was rather lonely, spending most of the previous two months by himself in the hills

Marlee took it in stride, just continuing on the path, leaving Tiresias plenty of time to stare.

Winterfell covered much more ground, but the walls of the Dreadfort stood taller. Even he would have a difficult time scaling it. Should it come to anything of the sort. The stones of the fortress looked almost black. It didn't seem that they had been cleaned for years. The merlons on top seemed sharper than usual, like teeth.

His eyes wandered to the foot of the Dreadfort. He wondered how deep the dungeons were, whether any unfortunate soul was currently on the rack.

He shook his head. He couldn't think of that. He just had to get in, get some tomes and get out. All with a casual air.

Yeah…nothing more casual than pretending to be casual…

Thankfully, he joined a throng of people heading toward the Dreadfort. The crowd gave him something to observe. Keep his mind off the dungeons. And his trembling hands.

It was the time of harvest. One of hopefully many during this long summer. All the keeps in the North were stocking up and the Dreadfort was no exception. Everyone around him were either carrying or carting measured bundles to the fortress. No one gave him a second look. He came to a line of people in front and pulled Marlee to a gentle halt. Climbing down, he took the reins in hand and led him slowly forward as each person was checked at the gates.

Finally it was his turn. He pulled Marlee forward to the head guard.

"Your business?"

"Here to see Maester Wolkan. Picking up some tomes for delivery."

The head guard glanced at Marlee. "Need a whole wagon for that?"

"Have you carried more than two tomes for over a mile? Without damaging them? Or dropping them? May not be heavy, but they're certainly awkward. Besides..." Tiresias looked back and shrugged. "It's not that big of a wagon."

The guard looked bored already and waved him in. "All right, all right, move on. Stables to your left."

Tiresias clicked his tongue and led Marlee forward, walking voluntarily into the Dreadfort. Something he thought he would never do.

The courtyard looked like most other courtyards he'd seen in his travels. It was still muddy from the rain a week ago. But it looked organized enough. The smallfolk stood with their bundles ready. He heard swords clang nearby in the exercise yard and smelled the ironworks from the forges.

The only off-putting thing about this courtyard was the mood. He wasn't sure whether it was because he knew the Bolton disposition and what laid beneath this castle, but at Winterfell, there were smiles in the yard. There was laughter. Here…here, there were guarded faces.

I also suppose it's not good form to smile when the Lord's son is missing…

The stable was easy to find. He halted Marlee in front and a man came out. He had a very pockmarked face.

"You're the horsemaster?" he asked. The man nodded, giving Marlee a look. "Aye, I know. Not a horse. But he could use some water and feed."

The horsemaster nodded, taking the reins and patting Marlee gently. Tiresias sighed internally. At least he was kind to the animals.

"Will he be needin' a stall for tonite?" asked the horsemaster.

"That won't be necessary," said Tiresias, lifting his rucksack out of the wagon. "I'll be leaving this afternoon."

"Be better if he'd rest proper," said the horsemaster, unhitching Marlee from the wagon.

"I agree," said Tiresias, shrugging. "But I'm afraid I must leave. Schedule to keep and all."

The horsemaster grunted in response. Once Marlee was situated, Tiresias helped push the wagon into the holding area.

"Thank you," said Tiresias, as he exited the stables. The horsemaster grunted, already taking another horse out to saddle. "Do you know where I can find Maester Wolkan?"

The horsemaster looked back to the stables and gave the sharpest whistle Tiresias ever heard. It pierced his ears.

"Sy! Come here!" he shouted.

A small boy with dark hair came out of the stables, holding a brush. He had only one eye.

"Put that down. Take this man to the maester and come back right after."

"Aye," said the lad. He fixed his eye on Tiresias and pointed off to his left. "It's this way."

Tiresias followed the boy farther into the Dreadfort. As they walked out of the courtyard and into the corridors, he began to sense eyes following him. From maids, guards, and workers. They weren't ignoring him like the other smallfolk. He doubted there were many newcomers to the Dreadfort, those that would walk its halls.

It took a few minutes, but eventually the boy stopped in front of a door at the end of a hall. He turned and stared at Tiresias.

"This 'un," he stated, before running back. Eager to get back to the stables before he was punished. Tiresias watched him disappear, before turning back to the door.

Hoping that Maester Wolkan was as amiable as he was on the show, he raised his hand and knocked.

"Come in," called a voice. Tiresias opened the door.

Wolkan's chancery was situated in the corner of the Dreadfort, his window facing the Weeping Water. A lovely view from a terrible place. But Tiresias sensed this was a calm room, filled with many tomes, maps and other items of learning. The desk was cluttered in a good way and Maester Wolkan looked up from his letter, quill in hand.

"Maester Wolkan?"

Wolkan nodded, gazing at Tiresias, trying to place him. He lowered his quill.

"That is me," he said, warily. "And you are…"

"My name is Tiresias."

"Tiresias…" murmured Wolkan. His eyes widened in recognition. "The librarian from Winterfell?"

"Aye," said Tiresias, nodding. "I took advantage of your open invitation." He gestured to the hallway. "I hope this isn't a bad time."

"Well, it's…no, no, it's not a bad time," said Maester Wolkan, standing up. "Come in, come in. Shut the door, please."

Tiresias did so. Wolkan came around and shook his hand.

"Welcome to the Dreadfort, Tiresias." He meant it too. "You must be tired from the journey. Sit, please."

"Thank you." Tiresias took the offered seat as Wolkan sat back down.

"So, you're here for tomes?"

Tiresias shrugged. "Only a few and only what Lord Bolton and you are willing to donate. Maester Luwin and I aren't seeking to ransack the libraries of Lord Stark's bannermen."

"No, no. 'Course not," said Wolkan, shaking his head. He picked up his quill. "Well, I need to finish these timber orders before Lord Bolton's return. But that should only be a few minutes…"

Tiresias cleared his throat. "Excuse me, I'm sorry. Lord Bolton is not here?"

"Oh no. Lord Bolton is currently away. He has been for the past four nights."

Relief and dread bubbled up in equal measures for Tiresias. He had a pretty good idea why Roose Bolton was currently absent. Where Wolkan now sat, he saw Ramsay's eyes widened before he shot him. Rosie disappearing in the dirt.

It was a struggle to keep his face neutral.

"I see," he muttered.

"However, he should be back this afternoon," said Wolkan, his eyes down. He wrote rapidly. "You should be able to see him tonight at supper, should you wish. He tends to dine alone, but he does familiarize himself with his guests."

"That won't be necessary, Maester. I'll be gone before long."

Wolkan looked up. "Are you not staying the night?"

He shook his head. "Not planning on it. I just wanted to retrieve the tomes and leave. I've been long enough away from Winterfell as it is."

The maester looked disappointed. "Well, I should say that it will take longer than a few hours for a sufficient audit of the library. Had I earlier notice of your arrival, I could have set aside more that would interest you. As of now, I'm afraid…"

"Maester Wolkan," interrupted Tiresias. He made sure to keep his tone light. "I appreciate your concern, but I've been perusing Northern libraries for years. I know the one in Winterfell better than anyone. Should there any wanted tomes in your library, with your help, we'll find them quickly. I'm very good at sniffing out what I want."

He hoped he didn't sound too dickish. The man was only trying to help after all. And he had spent nights in other keeps before. It wasn't unusual. But this was the Dreadfort and he wanted to be out before Roose came home.

When the chickens came home to Roose…oh shut the hell up and focus!

Wolkan nodded. "If you said so. I suppose, with my help…all right." He picked up his quill again and finished the order. "Have you had lunch yet, Tiresias?"

Tiresias shook his head. "Didn't even have breakfast."

"Well, it's not quite midday, but that shouldn't matter." He placed his quill down and laid the order down to dry, before standing. "How about you join me for a midday meal and then we'll head to the library together?"

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Tiresias gave a small smile. "Sounds lovely."

The great hall was dim and smoky, with the rafters turned black from the ongoing fires. It took everything Tiresias had not to start coughing. The smells were overwhelming in this place. Wolkan sat opposite him and asked him questions about the library, which tomes he had received from which houses and more. He seemed genuinely excited for the project.

Tiresias indulged him. He couldn't imagine that the maester had anyone here he could speak tomes with. At the same time, he answered with no more than what was possible and asked the maester questions in return, about his education, the Citadel and how he came to the North. He learned quickly though that the maester was guarded as well when it came to the secrets of the Dreadfort. Wolkan's eyes shielded over when he inquired about the Lord's absence. And Tiresias didn't push it.

It was a relief when the meal came, served by a silent young woman with anxious eyes. She scanned Tiresias briefly, but scurried off as he nodded at her in thanks.

I'd be scared too if I were a young woman in this place…hell, I'm scared now regardless…

They ate in silence. Tiresias finished his pie and ale quickly, but Wolkan was a slow eater. He resisted the urge to tap his foot and waited as nonchalantly as he could.

Finally, Wolkan drained the last of his mug. He eyed Tiresias' empty plate.

"Forgive me," he said, standing. "I tend to eat slowly."

Tiresias smiled as he stood. "Not at all. Shall we?"

Wolkan's chain clinked as he walked, echoing in the hallways. Tiresias still swore they were eyes following him. Finally, the maester opened a door and they entered the library.

The room was small, but the shelves were quite full. High windows streamed minimal light into the room, leading Wolkan to build the fire back up again. After it was blazing, he stood and turned back to Tiresias.

"I pulled a few tomes about a fortnight ago," he said. "If you wish to sit, I'll bring them over."

Wolkan disappeared behind a shelf, but Tiresias remained standing. He reached behind his back and touched his dagger's hilt. Still there. He knew Wolkan was no threat, but it comforted him.

The maester returned with a stack of three volumes.

"These are the histories of the North that the Dreadfort is willing to part with. At least I'm told this one is a historical account as well." He tapped the first one. "However, as it is in the Old Tongue, I'm afraid I can't confirm that."

Tiresias opened the volume and scanned the first page, his finger running gently along the symbols.

"Can you read the Old Tongue?"

"Aye," murmured Tiresias, his eyes still on the page. "I'm not fluent, but I understand the majority of it."

"Fascinating…"

Tiresias straightened up. "You were right. This is an historical accounting of the Marsh Kings, leading up to…"

He flipped the book to the end, scanning the last page. "The marriage to King Rickard Stark and their annexation."

Closing the book, he turned to the maester. "The Winterfell library, however, is well-stocked when it comes to Northern history. I don't feel right taking this volume, especially given its age and condition. It's rather fragile."

Wolkan seemed a little relieved and they continued onto the next volume, which thankfully was in the Common Tongue. They quickly went through the few volumes that Wolkan had already pulled for his arrival. So instead, Wolkan inquired which subjects the Winterfell library was lacking and he fetched whichever volumes he thought would fill that void.

Tiresias had no idea how much time had passed. The day was overcast and cast no shadows from the high windows. But he knew that he was running out of time. He and the maester had set aside a tome detailing the agricultural trades between the southern kingdoms before Aegon's Conquest. However, besides that, Tiresias would leave the Dreadfort rather empty-handed.

He turned to the maester and asked, he hoped offhandedly.

"I remembered, now that the Winterfell library is rather lacking in the fields of natural studies, the sciences. I'm curious, Maester Wolkan, do you have such a section?"

The maester seemed to stiffen a little, but he smiled immediately afterwards.

"Of course," he said. "I'll bring a few appropriate tomes."

Tiresias actually followed him to the row, standing there as Wolkan pulled about four volumes from the shelf. He seemed surprised to see Tiresias standing there, giving him a quick nod as he squeezed past. Tiresias, however, wasn't ready to return to the table quite yet.

He walked to the section, running his fingers over the tomes. He'd heard rumors. He simply wondered…

His finger brushed a covering that felt different than the others. Bracing himself, he pulled it out gently, raised it to his nose and sniffed.

It smelled strange, but familiar. As he brushed his hand across the front, it confirmed it. This tome was bound in human skin.

It was old too. Certainly not a recent job. He was disgusted to find a small part of him admiring the craftmanship. It was dyed and preserved, to seem like any other leathered volume.

He carried the tome back, opening it and turning the pages softly. Wolkan was opening the tomes and scanning them. He had already set aside one when Tiresias returned to the table, setting the human-skinned tome down. Determined to remain casual, he flipped through the pages, his fingers brushing the leathered skin.

Who the hell were you? He wondered, not reading the page at all. Did you ever think you would end up protecting a book?

Once he finally focused on the words and images, he realized that it detailed the human muscular system. Many of the images were studies that seemed far too realistic…

He supposed they could have been drawn from cadavers…but he doubted it.

"You've quite a number of tomes here on anatomy, Maester Wolkan."

Wolkan peered over the table. Tiresias swore he saw him suppress a tremble.

"Ah, indeed, we do." He turned to Tiresias. "That volume, I'm afraid, is not quite fit for transportation. It's quite old. However, this volume here…"

He set a rather large one on top of the southern trading accounts. "Is more than able to leave with you. However, if Winterfell is in need of more works concerning the natural studies, I'm sure we could find suitable material that the Dreadfort could part with. If you would only give me time to confer with Lord Bolton."

"He's still out though, aye?"

"As far as I am aware. I've not heard the horns announcing his return."

Tiresias closed the tome and forced a smile on his face.

"That won't be necessary." He gathered the offered volume on natural studies, as well as the southern trading accounts. "These two will do for the time being. If Lord Stark or any in Winterfell express any further interest in additional tomes, we can revisit the matter."

Maester Wolkan frowned through his polite nods.

"Still, it's unfortunate to ride so far for only two volumes and you have a wagon. I'm sure Lord Bolton wouldn't mind parting with additional tomes. The reinvigorated library is a noble endeavor. If you would care to wait…"

"I'm sorry, Maester Wolkan," said Tiresias. He packed the volumes in the bag gently, trying not to sound too clipped. "But as you said the journey is quite long and I should get going."

He reached out his hand.

"Thank you, Maester Wolkan. For your help and hospitality."

Wolkan took his hand and shook it, the genuine warmth still present.

"Of course, Tiresias. Please, allow me to escort you out. Make sure you're well-supplied for your journey back to Winterfell."

Tiresias nodded and walked calmly in-step with Wolkan as they exited the library and made their way to the stables. The horsemaster couldn't bring out the mule just yet as he wasn't done eating. So Tiresias set the tomes on the wagon, leaving him nothing to do but wait for the mule.

Maester Wolkan sent for supplies from the kitchens. Tiresias stared at the yard and forced himself to remain calm. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to run but he couldn't do it. He felt the presence of the dungeons underneath the castle. The rack where Theon was bound and tortured…

Just breathe…One, two, three…

He felt light-headed. Blinking furiously, he brought himself back to focus just as Marlee was being led out. Maester Wolkan was directing a stablehand with a sack.

"There you go," he said, as the sack of supplies landed on the wagon. "That should keep you comfortable until Winterfell."

Tiresias smiled, the muscles in his face felt quite tight.

"Aye, thank you," he said. "It's really too kind of you."

"Nonsense," said Wolkan merrily. "Lord Bolton would be furious if we let an envoy of House Stark go without adequate provisions. As soon as the mule is reined, you'll be set."

But at that moment, a horn from the high tower pierced the chilled air and Tiresias' stomach dropped.

Oh shit.

"Ah, that should be Lord Bolton now," said Wolkan. He didn't sound necessarily cheerful about it.

Tiresias nodded and turned his face away from the yard, from those that scurried to make ready for the arrival of their Lord.

No fear, Tiresias. No fear. You will be calm. You'll defer. You'll get out of this.

Once he was certain that his face was neutral, he walked back to the front of the wagon and climbed up. The horsemaster was hurrying now to strap in Marlee, knowing that he would have to service Lord Bolton soon. He didn't even look twice at Tiresias as he threw him the reins.

He turned back to Wolkan, giving him a final nod before clicking his tongue lightly. The wagon moved forward slowly in the bustling yard and he came to a stop off the side of the front gate. He would have to wait until the entire retinue had passed.

A guard shouted from the top.

"Open the gate!"

The last servant cleared away before the gates opened and the horses trotted through. He recognized Roose Bolton immediately, who led the retinue. He passed without a glance to him and Tiresias breathed. He realized that he was gripping the reins too tightly and forced himself to relax.

Roose Bolton dismounted from his horse and was greeted by Maester Wolkan. Tiresias looked back toward the gate as the rest of the horses came through. All in all, it looked like over thirty men. He heard the horses slowing to a walk before they entered. And he had to wait for them all to pass…

Come on…come on, you bastards. Just get through so I can…

He didn't dare look to his left to where he last saw Roose. There were only a few more left. But the men already in the courtyard were all dismounting and it was crowded, slowing everything down.

He breathed slowly through his nose.

Just one or two more…come on, come on.

Finally there was a gap and the guard looked to him expectantly.

"You going through? It's clear now."

Tiresias nodded, trying not to sigh in relief. He clicked his tongue and the wagon began to move.

"Hold on! Tiresias, hold!"

That was Maester Wolkan's voice and pretending not to hear him would be incredibly stupid. He halted the wagon and turned to see Maester Wolkan coming toward him. Roose Bolton was in the middle of the yard, his piercing eyes on him.

Fuck.

Wolkan came up to his wagon. He lowered his eyes to meet the maester's.

"Lord Bolton wishes to speak to you."

Tiresias swallowed as discretely as he could before speaking.

"Really?" He looked up to see Roose still looking at him. The Lord's face was quite impassive. "Is there an issue with the tomes?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, Tiresias. He just called."

Tiresias nodded. "Well, then. Suppose I better go."

He tied the reins and hopped down. Walking over to Roose, he wondered about the proper etiquette for this scenario. Whether it would be better to meet the eyes or not. As a foreigner, as a librarian, as a suspect…

Shut up, Tiresias. Just see what he wants.

He decided to meet the eyes and adopted the most neutral expression he possibly could. When he was near enough, he stopped and inclined his head.

"Lord Bolton."

Roose's eyes were grey, pale and quite calm. They scanned Tiresias easily.

"Your name is Tiresias, yes?"

He nodded. "That's right, my lord. Tiresias, the librarian of Winterfell."

"I see," Roose said. "Well, it's good to finally meet the foreigner who's been traversing the North, collecting our books. I hope Maester Wolkan was helpful in that regard."

Desperate for an opportunity to check his surroundings, Tiresias turned to Wolkan and nodded.

"He was quite helpful. And you, Lord Bolton, I should thank you for the donations. I tried not to be too greedy."

A few curious eyes, but nothing nefarious. The guards were focused on Roose, but they didn't seem on edge. He turned back to the pale lord.

"Think nothing of it," said Roose softly. "If the Starks need assistance, my house is only too happy to offer it."

"Indeed," Tiresias said. He hoped the next sentence wasn't too desperate. "I'll be sure to pass on the message to Lord Stark."

"You're leaving now?" asked Roose, the slightest lift in his voice.

Shit.

"I'm an efficient traveler, Lord Bolton. Sooner I'm back in Winterfell, the better."

"It's late afternoon, Tiresias. Not the best time at all for a departure. And if those clouds are any indication, you'll be besieged by rain within the hour. Best to wait until the morning to set out. You are, of course, welcome to stay the night."

Tiresias looked at the clouds. Roose was right. No man of sound mind would depart in this weather. To leave now would look suspicious. Like he needed to leave immediately. To flee.

He turned back to Roose.

"I wouldn't want to take advantage, Lord Bolton. You and your house have been most kind already. I'm willing to find other accommodations. Spare you the trouble."

"No trouble at all, Tiresias. It's always an honor and a pleasure to host a man of House Stark."

God fucking damn it...

He smiled and inclined his head again.

"Thank you, Lord Bolton. In that case, I'll be honored to accept your invitation."

Time to look relieved, Tiresias. You have shelter. In an ancient fortress. You need to be relaxed.

"May I shake your hand, Lord Bolton?"

For the first time, Roose paused before he spoke. That was the only indication of his perplexion.

"Shake my hand?"

"Forgive me. As you said, I am a foreigner and I don't know the precise rules of engagement between a high lord and a mere librarian such as myself. But in my land, handshakes were suitable across multiple stations. I simply wanted to thank you for allowing me to stay the night."

Roose hesitated again, but only slightly. His grey eyes were still calm.

"It's not commonplace. However…"

He extended his hand and Tiresias shook it. There was no machismo deathgrip from the Bolton lord. He was actually surprisingly gentle.

Afterwards, Roose nodded to the wagon.

"You'll want to get your things from the wagon, I'd imagine. Afterwards, my steward will show you your room for the night."

"Thank you."

Roose met him again with the pale eyes.

"And of course, you must join me for dinner. We'll eat in three hours."

For what felt like the millionth time today, Tiresias nodded.

"Of course. Thank you, my lord. I look forward to it."

With that, Roose turned and left, his guard following. Tiresias had to stop himself from sighing. He turned quickly to fetch his rucksack. No sense in standing stupidly in the middle of the yard.

It wasn't a useful thought but as he grabbed his rucksack, he went over Roose's voice. It was just as delightful as it was in the show. That didn't cheer him at all.

Tiresias stood by the fire in the dining hall. Well, the private dining hall. Unlike in Winterfell, where the Starks ate in the Great Hall with other members of the household, it seemed that Roose preferred the privacy of this small chamber. The only other occupant was the manservant who stood silently by the door.

Rain was falling steadily outside. As Roose predicted. He tried to listen to it, to let him calm him. Ignore the anger that this delay caused…

He sighed minutely. Even without the rain, he wouldn't have gotten out of this. He knew that a man with a wagon attempting to leave in the late afternoon was strange. No inn was near enough to travel to before dark. Suggesting finding other accommodations was just foolish. He just didn't want to spend the night here…

Well, too bad. You're here and under slightly more suspicious circumstances. Now eat, make conversation but not too much and leave in the morning. You can do it.

Footsteps were approaching from the hallway. He counted three sets. He turned to see the manservant open the door just as Roose Bolton entered with two house guards.

"Thank you for joining me, Tiresias." His low voice rumbled through the chamber. "I hope you haven't been waiting too long?"

"Not at all, my lord," he said, striding to the table. Roose, already at his chair, gestured for him to sit.

"Before we begin," said Roose, who remained standing. "Something which slipped my mind in the courtyard."

He nodded to the manservant, who disappeared and returned a moment later. He carried a tray to the table and set it down in front of Tiresias. There was a goblet, a small loaf of bread and a serving cup of salt.

Tiresias raised his eyes to see Roose peering at him closely.

"Guest right?"

"A formality. I assure you that you have been a welcome guest since you've entered the castle." He nodded toward the tray.

Formality…right.

The manservant returned to pour wine into his goblet. It seemed to glow crimson in the firelight.

Tiresias tore off a piece of the bread. "I appreciate it."

He dipped the bread in the wine before sprinkling it with salt. He chewed it slowly, well aware of the eyes watching him. He nodded to Roose.

"Thank you," he said.

"Of course," said Roose, sitting down himself. "Now we can eat."

The dour upkeep of the Dreadfort didn't do much to raise Tiresias' expectations of the culinary skills here. However his expectations were surpassed, which he supposed shouldn't have been a surprise. Roose may be a sociopath, but he was still a lord. He would eat well enough in this world.

His bread and salt were replaced by sausages and seasoned potatoes. Roose was served the same. He savored his first bite. Dinner sitting at a table always seemed luxurious after traveling and camping for nights on end. It was almost worth the company.

The first bite went down easily as the manservant poured water into Roose's cup.

"Excuse me," he said to the manservant, after he was done pouring. "May I have some water as well please?"

"Is the wine not to your liking?" asked Roose.

Tiresias shook his head. "The wine is lovely, my lord. But I don't like to drink the night before I travel. Road's bumpy enough without a hangover."

A full cup of water was placed before him. He brought it to his mouth, sneaking a quick sniff before sipping. Nothing but water in the cup. At least not what he could smell.

"And you, Lord Bolton?" he asked, placing the cup down. "Do you not drink wine?"

"No, I don't."

"Dulls the senses?"

The light in Roose's eyes seemed to sharpen after that and Tiresias had to force himself not to wince.

That was a damn stupid thing to say, man.

After an eternal second, Roose nodded.

"Indeed, it does. Thankfully I've never cared for the taste."

"Lucky you." Tiresias raised his cup. "I'm sure it's bad luck to toast without ale or wine, but you seem like a brave man. May I? I promise I'll be brief."

He wondered if Roose would go for it. After all, it was very awkward to toast with only two people. With three silent onlookers, no less.

Finally, Roose raised his cup, never breaking eye contact. Tiresias swallowed some spit.

"To you, Lord Bolton. To your hospitality and your generous donation to the library in Winterfell. I certainly can't speak for them, but I'm sure that the Starks send their regards and wish you well."

They both drank silently and returned to their meals. Tiresias had to slow down his bites. He must be calm. He must be relaxed. Must ignore the guards by the door and the weapons they bore…

"I'm curious," said Roose, as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "How did you come to be the librarian at Winterfell?"

"Through the crannogmen, on Lord Reed's recommendation," Tiresias responded. The truth was always the best lie. "Friend from the Neck, I found him when I arrived in Westeros. Told him I needed work. He was meeting Lord Reed at the time and passed on my request. Nothing for me in the Neck, but he vouched for me and sent me along to Winterfell. Lord Stark read his letter and that was that."

He sliced off more of the sausage. Forced himself to chew.

"Where are you from?" asked Roose. "I've never heard…"

"This accent before?" Tiresias finished his sentence, plastering a smile on his face. "If I had a copper star for every time I heard that question…"

Roose didn't return the smile. Tiresias sighed.

"My people were nomads, but we stuck mainly to the bays up north in Essos. The Shivering Sea. Came back to Lorath frequently."

"And where did you meet your crannog friend in Essos?"

"The ship here. From Pentos." He shrugged. "Didn't ask why he was in Pentos. Didn't know crannogs from regular Westerosi. Just liked his company."

Annag's words came back to him. Still fresh after so many years. Her warning.

Don't fuck up with a lie you can't hold, Tiresias. Take another bite. It's just a light dinner.

Roose went back to his food, seemingly content. Tiresias didn't buy it. There was too much focus in the pale lord. He needed to change the conversation.

"I must admit, Lord Bolton," he said, taking a sip. "It's a little strange to be in the Dreadfort, after a few years in Winterfell."

"Your meaning?"

"Well, I've read quite a bit about the North in that time. Librarian and all. You and the Starks have some rather contentious history."

He raised his hands as Roose fixed him with a stare.

"Apologies. Not you, of course. Not now, but back then. It seems your respective families had their fair share of tiffs."

"Tiffs?"

He covered his mouth to shield his chewing. "Troubles. But that's all in the past now. The last rebellion was over a thousand years ago, or do I have the date wrong?"

Roose put his fork down and leaned back. "I'm afraid I don't know the precise year. Seems correct enough."

That was a lie. A well-hidden one, but a lie nonetheless.

"A common fallacy in record-keeping, even here in Westeros," said Tiresias, taking a sip of water. "Your maesters can't seem to agree on dates when it comes to the ancient happenings. The last Red King, Rogar Bolton, the Huntsman, he submitted to House Stark with the Coming of the Andals, aye? Well, when did the Andal invasion begin? Some say six thousand years ago. True History says four thousand years ago, but a few maesters like Maester Denestan; he's gone rogue and claimed it was only two thousand years ago. Frankly, that sounds a little insane to me, but I'm no historian. Perhaps, and forgive me for asking, do you know when Rogar the Huntsman lived? By any chance? I can see the Dreadfort containing that bit of knowledge more than I can the Citadel."

Roose's eyes were dulled over. That tangent had the desired affect and Lord Bolton was bored with his guest. With any luck, dinner would end quickly and quietly, with an early departure in the morning a lot more certain.

"No, I'm afraid I don't," he said. "I'm sure that Maester Wolkan could find an estimation or figure somewhere. I'll have him send his findings to Winterfell if you're so curious about the matter."

"That would be appreciated, thank you. But only if he has the time."

He bent down over his plate, returning to his meal. After a few bites, he realized he was the only one eating. He looked up to see Roose leaned back in his chair, his eyes resting on the fire.

Tiresias swallowed. "Excuse me, Lord Bolton. Are you not hungry?"

Roose pushed his plate away.

"I'm afraid not, Tiresias," he sighed. He nodded to the manservant, who came and removed the half-finished meal promptly.

Tiresias put down his own fork.

"If you don't mind me asking; is something the matter, my Lord?" he probed gently.

Lord Bolton took a sip of water, the flames reflected in his pale eyes.

"My son is missing, Tiresias. He has been for near a fortnight. I've just returned from the search party. And I'm afraid we've been unsuccessful so far."

Expecting that answer didn't make hearing it any easier. Tiresias fought to keep his face appropriate for the occasion. Sympathetic. Surprised. And just a little curious.

"My sympathies, my Lord," he muttered softly. The rain seemed to the hit the window a little harder. He let the moment continue before asking the follow-up question.

"Pardon me, Lord Bolton," he said. Roose's eyes traveled back to him, waiting. "But your son? I read your lineage a year prior, along with the other Northern lords, and I didn't see any children."

"Ramsay is my bastard," Roose answered. He didn't seem offended, but he didn't offer any further explanation. Tiresias nodded.

"Well, my sympathies regardless. I hope you find him."

"I'm sure we will." The Lord's voice was now so soft it barely traveled over the crackle of the fire. "We have ruled these lands as long as the Starks have ruled theirs. We know it well. And my kennelmaster, Ben, breeds excellent hounds. Ramsay will be found, I'm certain of it."

He picked up his goblet, peering into it.

"Though at this point...I'm more willing to believe a corpse will come through that gate in place of my son."

He sipped his water and silence reigned again. Tiresias cleared his throat.

"A corpse, my lord? Do you suspect foulplay?"

Lord Bolton peered at him for a few seconds longer than he was comfortable with. Finally he answered.

"There is no evidence of such." He sighed, leaning back into his chair. "However, if he merely suffered an accident and fell broken on the forest floor, my men would have found him by now. At least the two dogs he left with would have returned. But our hounds and hunters have found nothing so far and Ramsay has been safe in those hills alone before. The complete absence of anything...it does make one believe…horrible things."

At this point, Tiresias knew he couldn't change the conversation at this point. It was too abrupt. He nodded casually and speared another sausage.

"That does seem strange," he agreed, chewing his meat to buy some time. After he swallowed, he spoke again. "The hills…Would those be the Lonely Hills? To the northwest? Or the Sheepshead to the south?"

"You're quite familiar with our lands."

Tiresias shrugged. "Only from looking at a map. Although I'm afraid I must be confused. I thought the Lonely Hills belonged to the Umbers."

"They do. However, we have an informal arrangement with House Umber. They don't venture often in the southern part of those hills. As the Dreadfort lies far nearer to that territory, they have allowed us essentially rule over the south Hills."

"That's generous of them." Tiresias leaned back in his chair. "Did Ramsay often go there?"

Roose took another sip of water before he responded. "Yes. Eleven days ago, he was seen entering those hills by my house guard. That was the last time he was sighted."

Quickly debating the intelligence, or lack thereof, of his next sentence, Tiresias plunged ahead.

"I heard things about the Lonely Hills. On my way here."

His eyes were down on his plate, but he swore he felt Lord Bolton's eyes brighten. His voice remained casual though.

"Indeed? What did you hear?"

Tiresias met his eyes. They actually were a little brighter.

"Just that a couple of girls had disappeared in there."

It was subtle, but Tiresias could see it. The slightest flare of the nostrils. The pale eyes dulling to conceal. Over by the door, he heard one of the houseguards tightened his grip on his spear.

Determined not to turn the mood even more suspicious, Tiresias lowered his eyes to his plate for the last bites of his sausage and mash.

"That's quite distressing to hear," said Roose, his voice soft again. "Where did you hear this?"

Tiresias shrugged. "At an inn, east of Long Lake. Didn't catch the name of the town. Wasn't much of one, to be frank."

"I don't suppose you would know the names of those spoke of these young girls?"

Tiresias shook his head.

"I wouldn't. Sitting behind me and they were strangers. Just heard enough to avoid the Lonely Hills and whatever was taking those girls. Wasn't planning to venture there anyway, but that sealed it."

He placed his fork and knife down, his meal finished.

"A wise decision," said Lord Bolton.

"Not sure I'd say that, my Lord. Not the worst idea to keep to the road."

"Indeed. Would you care for more to eat?"

Tiresias raised his hand, shaking his head. "You're kind to offer, Lord Bolton, but no thank you. I'm quite full and you've been more than generous already."

"Not at all."

Tiresias straightened. "I mean it, my Lord. Especially at such a hard time, it was more than I expected when I came here to fetch a few books."

For the first time that evening, something of a smile appeared on Roose's face.

"It's no difficulty, to host a mere librarian. I do apologize, however, for the dour nature of the conversation. I am worried about my son, but you are a guest and not inclined to hear such subjects."

Tiresias almost laughed at the mere librarian line. Right now, he was tensing up trying not to tense up. He shook his head.

"Please do not apologize, my Lord. Missing a son is quite distressing, to say the least and I'm more than willing to converse on the topic if that should give you any relief."

Roose sighed quietly. Despite being quite collected, Tiresias could clearly see his exhaustion.

"Relief," he muttered, nodding. "That would be much desired. Speaking of, did you wish to retreat to your chamber?"

"I wouldn't mind heading to bed early, my Lord."

Lord Bolton stood, the chair's creaks echoing in the small room. "Then I'll let Willard escort you to your chambers and say goodnight and farewell to you here. I won't see you in the morning when you depart."

Tiresias stood as well. "Good night, my Lord. Thank you again."

He inclined his head, turning to the manservant, Willard. He was halfway to the door when Roose called to him.

"Before you retire, Tiresias, I wanted to ask…"

Fighting not to fidget his fingers, Tiresias turned back to the Bolton Lord, silhouetted by the fire.

"When did you leave Winterfell? To travel here?"

Multiple nights of whispering in the dark, practicing his answers, finally came to use. His answer came in what he hoped was a casual and truthful tone.

"About two months and a sennight. Give or take a day or two."

"That's quite a slow travel from Winterfell."

Tiresias nodded in agreement.

"That would be the case had I come straight here. I rode up to the Wall beforehand. To the Nightfort. To scour for tomes."

Roose's face was inscrutable.

"I wouldn't think there would be any tomes at an abandoned fort at the Wall."

Tiresias laughed softly. "That's what most people believe. However, when places are abandoned, tomes are generally left and forgotten. People take food and cloth. Scavengers scour for gold and treasure. Tomes, stories…they're quite undervalued. Left to collect dust and filth. It's not the treasure that many seek."

"I see…and did you find such treasures at the Nightfort, Tiresias?"

"Not as many as I would have liked, my Lord. Just one tome. Seems to be some historical accounting of the Night's Watch in the Old Tongue. I'm looking forward to properly translating it when I'm back in Winterfell."

Roose continued to look him and Tiresias returned the favor. However, unlike Roose, he blinked freely, determined to not to turn this into a contest. Plus, he read somewhere that staring contests were for amateurs.

Where had he read that?

Finally, Lord Bolton nodded. "I see. Good night, Tiresias. Have a safe journey back to Winterfell."

Tiresias inclined his head a final time before following Willard out of the room. He could feel Roose's eyes on his back until the door was shut behind him.

Willard was silent as he led Tiresias through the torch-lit halls. Tiresias could hear his heart pounding. Could Willard hear it as well? Was it echoing down the stone corridors?

Finally Willard halted before his guest quarters and opened the door for him. Tiresias entered and Willard bowed, before closing the door.

He half-expected to hear the door lock and realize that he was lured into a trap. But that didn't happen. He only heard Willard's light patter as he walked away. He turned to the small room, to his rucksack on the desk where he had left it. Striding toward it, he lifted it gently trying to see if anything was out of place. It didn't seem so. Everything was as he left it. There was just something unfamiliar that he couldn't nail down…

He sniffed the rucksack. A little different…perhaps. Did that confirm it? Did someone search his room when he was at dinner?

It didn't help that he knew that there was a torture dungeon below him. That was clearly influencing his thinking. He wondered if there was anyone there now.

The thought definitely affected his impression of that dinner. Did Roose suspect him? Was he just fishing? Was he lying about not finding Ramsay? He buried the bastard deep. Did the dogs find it? Was the dressing not enough?

His heart was still racing. He took the chair by the desk and leaned it against the door, bracing it. He sat back on the bed, staring at it. It wouldn't hold, he knew that. But they couldn't sneak into his room while he slept. He would hear the ramming if they forced the door down…

His fingers curled around the small jar in his pocket. He still had half of the Resting Wisp. More than enough.

You always have this out. They can't hurt you when you're dead.

He breathed slowly, invoking his mother's technique. At the end of a long minute, he chuckled. He wish he knew what he found slightly amusing...

Taking off his boots, he laid down on top of the covers. If he had to go quickly, he didn't want to fight the blankets half-asleep. He blew out the candle, but didn't go to sleep right away. His eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly and they gazed from the searched rucksack to the propped chair against the door.

Admittedly he couldn't be certain that his belongings were searched. But he smelled something in this room. He didn't see anything though and that concerned him greatly. If whoever searched his room was able to do so without leaving any visible clue behind, then Roose Bolton had access to very dangerous men. Or women. He supposed that he couldn't even relax in front of the maids in this place.

He hadn't prayed in years, even before he came to Westeros. But as he drifted off, he begged silently from every deity he could remember to let him wake up and leave the Dreadfort without any trouble the following morning. He couldn't be sure if any of them answered. The pounding rain was his only response.

Perhaps you'd deserve it if you woke up strapped to the rack like Theon. After what you did to Rosie...

He eyed the door in the dark, the image of Theon Greyjoy strapped to that rack burning in his mind.

Maybe…but I don't want to be tortured. I know that much. I'm still going to try and get out of here.

The sound of the pounding rain seemed to lessen. He wasn't sure if he would sleep this night. He didn't know if he should.

However, he did sleep. Pretty well surprisingly. He woke early and saw gray light seeping into the room from the window. The chair was still propped against the door. No one had disturbed his slumber.

A rooster signaled the dawn from the yard. He sat up and grabbed his boots, trying to focus. The fear so absent as he slept was coming back in full. If Roose had any plans to try and keep him in the Dreadfort, he'll discover them pretty soon. He gathered all his belongings, accounting for everything before he faced the door.

He hesitated before removing the chair.

Once I move this, I'll have no protection. Even with what I was gifted, it won't be enough to fight my way out of here.

His hands trembled and he let them. Once he was in the open, there could be no shaking hands. He was a guest. He had to walk like one.

Setting his shoulders, he went forward and removed the chair, setting it back at the desk. He pressed his ear against the door, listening. It seemed that no one was outside his door. He creaked the door open and confirmed that, peering out into the empty corridor.

He steeled himself, set his face to neutral and walked out.

The courtyard was beginning to come to life. He kept everyone he passed in his periphery. No one seemed to be looking back at him. A few curious glances, but everyone seemed content to ignore him. That did nothing to calm him. In fact, his heart was pounded harder by the time he entered the stables.

The horsemaster was already there, brushing a steed down. He nodded to Tiresias as he recognized him.

"Here to try again?"

Tiresias took a second to flatten the tremble in his voice before he spoke.

"Aye. Figured I'd get an early start. Try and make up for some time."

The pockmarked horsemaster placed the brush down and gave his piercing whistle to the stablehand in the back, who rushed to fetch Marlee from his stall.

The man turned back to Tiresias.

"Didn't expect you this early though. Break your fast?"

Tiresias shook his head. "Not hungry."

"Well, you will be. Come midday." The horsemaster nodded to the back of the courtyard. "We won't be ready for ten minutes. Fifteen even. After you check the wagon, why don't you fetch some grub for the road? Kitchen just opened."

Well aware that he had already protested Bolton hospitality quite a few times, Tiresias bite back the retort he felt coming and merely nodded.

He checked the wagon. Everything was still in place and the wheels were sound. He stored his rucksack aboard before he traveled to the kitchens. He gathered fresh bread, a few apples and smoked salmon.

The kitchen girl who fetched his food didn't meet his eyes. He glanced around the kitchen. Nobody did. He reminded himself that no one met his eyes here. At least not the women. It wasn't suspicious. They weren't planning anything. He wouldn't be seized in the courtyard when he returned. Dragged down to the dungeons…

He shook his head, getting himself out of the downward spiral.

You need to keep it together, Tiresias. Come on, man. Just get through those gates. Get on the road. You can do it.

Thanking the girl for the food, he left the kitchen and walked back to the stables. The courtyard did seem more crowded than it was ten minutes ago. Still, no one gave him a second look.

He came to the entrance of the stables. His wagon was ready, Marlee in place. He climbed aboard, placing the food in the back. The horsemaster was already back inside, continuing to groom the steed. He nodded to Tiresias in farewell and Tiresias returned the gesture.

He stretched one last time, raising his arms above his head, trying to covertly see if anyone was watching him. No one was. Not that he could see.

Taking the reins, he clicked his tongue. The wagon proceeded gently to the gate. Two house guards peered at him unblinkingly as he approached. Tiresias halted Marlee and nodded.

"Mornin'," he said. The guards simply looked at him.

The unasked question hung in the air for a couple of seconds.

Will you two open this gate? Will I realize I'm a prisoner shortly?"

Finally, the guards walked to the gate and creaked it open. Tiresias had to stop himself from grinning. He clicked his tongue.

"Thank you," he called, as the wagon rolled through. He received no response, except for the gate creaking shut behind him. He resisted the urge to look up at the battlements. He imagined a group of cross-bows firing upon him as he rode away.

He drove the wagon for a solid ten minutes before he dared to look back. The Dreadfort was tiny in the distance. Roose Bolton couldn't see him at this range. Not with his pale eyes.

Checking around and verifying that he was truly alone on the road, he began to laugh quietly, smiling to himself. He felt his hands trembling and he let them. All of the nerves that he had suppressed for the past day were coming out in full. He even felt tears rolled down his cheeks without even crying.

It took a few moments for this to pass. Marlee pulled the cart completely unabated during this release and he was thankful. He adjusted his grip on the reins and regained control. He rode silently for the rest of the day and though he was calmer than he thought possible, there was still something that kept him looking back, checking the road behind him.

In those quiet moments, he could still hear his heart pounding.