27 Chapter 27

Tiresias continued to explore King's Landing over the following sennight. Of course, not all of his wanderings ended in such dour locations such as the dragonpit. Even if he recognized a section of the city that rioted or burned, he never could feel totally down. It helped that every evening on his way back to the Purple Rose, he would stop at a different tavern. He made new friends at each location, far drunker than him, who promptly forgot him hours later when he departed. Perhaps they could sooner learn his face if he gambled, which he did a couple of times throughout the sennight, winning back what he had spent in the last few days.

Overall, the mood of the people on the street seemed to heighten as well. It wasn't just the economic boom that the tourney brought. It was a sport, an event, and though they may resent the highborn deep down for their obscene wealth, it was a rare man who could resist the latest rumor from the upcoming tourney. Tiresias heard of the many knights and highborns who were entering. Of the dishes commissioned. Of the tourney grounds being constructed outside the King's Gate.

As the tourney neared, more and more nobles appeared in the city and he was treated to their splendor as they arrived. They usually marched through the city gates in the early afternoon. Word of their approach in the mornings spurned Tiresias to the respective city gates to watch them pass.

Most of the nobles he didn't recognize. Many of them weren't nearly as handsome as the main cast on the show. However, his stomach lurched one day to hear of the Tyrells' imminent arrival from the Reach. Knowing the way well by now, he headed to the River Gate, as they would be arriving by the Roseroad. With his above-average height, he didn't have to fight for a view. Positioning himself near an alley entrance, he heard the retinue approach.

Heralds trotted ahead, calling for the smallfolk to clear the streets, which no one bothered to protest. It was rather efficient, as the streets emptied just in time to be occupied by the Tyrells, their green and gold banners blanketing the road.

Tiresias chewed his jerky and tried to stop his hand from twitching. Rows of soldiers passed…to be succeeded by a fat man with the most openly friendly face he'd seen in Westeros so far.

He laughed softly as the man passed, waving merrily to the crowd.

"Hello, Mace," he muttered, giving the man a covert wave back. He was a rich fool. But at least he wasn't malevolent. Only a cover for the real power of House Tyrell.

Whom, he guessed, was now riding past in the following carriage. It was ornate, impressively crafted and was surrounded by the most burly guards in their company.

Tiresias looked on, mildly disappointed that he couldn't see Olenna Tyrell and probably Margaery as they entered the city, but no matter. They were better off if he let them alone for now. Besides, he was just a poor stranger in King's Landing. Barely better than a peasant. He wasn't speaking to any noble soon.

The lack of Loras Tyrell in their company further confirmed one thing to Tiresias. The Knight of Flowers was already in the company of Renly Baratheon. They both probably resided in the Red Keep. He had already heard gossip that Loras Tyrell planned to ride in the joust.

The retinue had passed completely and the streets returned to normal. He stuffed the rest of his jerky in his mouth and walked on.

If Loras Tyrell and Renly Baratheon were lovers now, then the same consequence was likely. Should the South erupt again into war over the succession of the Iron Throne, Loras would be there to suggest Renly's claim and push House Tyrell into an alliance with the youngest Baratheon. He hated the fact that he wished the two had never met. God knows two Westerosi men in love needed all the happiness they could receive. Still, he wished there was some way he could influence the Flowers of Highgarden to stay out of the shitshow that was coming. That was Olenna's original opinion on the matter. Perhaps if he could meet her sometime, tell her to pull Loras from King's Landing…

He snorted at the thought. Influencing Olenna Tyrell was well beyond his capacity, now and probably forever. Lord Stark only heeded his counsel because of his frankness and his knowledge about Lyanna. He doubted the same would work for the Queen of Thorns.

However, it was still a ways away. He put it out of his mind and simply enjoyed the pageantry. Other houses came through the city gates over the next few days. The Tullys and the other Riverland houses through the Gate of the Gods on the Kingsroad from the north. The yellow banners of Stannis Baratheon arrived from Dragonstone, anchoring in Blackwater Bay, as well as the Royces and the other Valemen who sailed from Gulltown. Other nobles from the Reach came through the River Gate. Tiresias witnessed an ever humorless Randyll Tarley lead his retinue, their banners featuring a prominent red archer. A tall and armored, but still young boy rode beside him.

Tiresias wasn't surprised to see Dickon and not Samwell. He hoped Sam was enjoying the month or so without his father at Horn Hill. It would only be a short relief in the years before he was forced to renounce his titles and join the Night's Watch.

Resisting the childish notion to spit after the stern lord, Tiresias turned and proceeded to the other side of the city. According to Mikal the innkeeper, the real power in Westeros was due to arrive in a matter of hours.

Sure enough, as the afternoon turned into evening, Tiresias witnessed the largest company of soldiers by far enter the city. Through the Lion Gate, funny enough, a red sea of banners trotted efficiently. They didn't have to clear the streets though. King's Landing remembered what happened during the rebellion when the Lannisters entered the city.

Tiresias was actually one of the only people who remained outside to watch the parade. He stood out more than he wished and was tempted to hide himself. However, he rooted his feet and stayed, taking in the impressive might of the richest family in Westeros.

Seemingly the richest, he corrected himself. Their last mine will run dry soon. What position will they claim then?

Probably the same. They still looked powerful. After a solid minute of the Lannister guard riding past, Tiresias received his first look at the Old Lion.

Tywin Lannister rode a horse that seemed as tall and as powerful as himself. His eyes remained fixed and Tiresias followed them all the way to the Red Keep, glinting in the sunset.

You certainly know what you want, old man.

Turning back, he studied the lion's face as long as he could before he rode past. He doubted Tywin Lannister felt any discomfort entering the city he sacked. Indeed, he didn't even glance to the side to view any remaining gawkers.

Maybe he was just used to be viewed as such. High, powerful, rich…untouchable.

He certainly acted as such, keeping his head high and focused on the castle ahead. It was common gossip that Ser Jaime Lannister was favored to win the joust. His father was certain to bring all of the glory of Casterly Rock to the capitol. For the victory of his golden child. Nothing else in the city mattered as much for him. Certainly not the piercing gaze of a stranger. He rode quickly past the alleyway where Tiresias stood. He smirked at the back of the man's head.

That's right. Ride past. Ignore me. I'm nobody. Absolutely nobody.

Recognizing the smugness, he suppressed the feeling as quickly as he could. That kind of attitude would get him killed. If he loved being anonymous so much, it wouldn't do to smile like a jackass in public.

Or interest the royal spymaster…even if you do need him to get Gendry out…

Turning his face back to neutral, he observed the rest of the retinue. Kevan Lannister rode next to his son, Lancel, though it took him a few blinks to recognize the lad. He had the same pout on his lip.

Afterwards, it was only soldiers and stewards. Soon the Lannisters had passed and he was left with an empty street. He looked to the gate, a little forlorn. No Northerners had entered the city yet. That thought filled him with more sadness than he thought. He missed Winterfell. He missed those inside. The children, the library, the coolness of the wind, the strong brown eyes…

He shook his head. It was only another sennight until the tourney began. He could wait. King's Landing still had many secrets to unfold.

Exhaling, he entered a tavern near the Lion Gate. He hadn't been to this one before. He would risk winning a few silver moons tonight, along with eating whatever they passed for meat in their pies.

It wasn't just the rich retinues of the highborn that called his attention. It was also the rich buildings of the city. Or which ones he could get a possible closer look at. As opposed to his modern days of walking through a medieval city, there weren't many places he could just enter as a sightseer.

The Sept of Baelor was such a place. He came to the massive stairway that led to the ornate church of the Seven. About halfway up, he noticed that the entrance was guarded by the City Watch. He halted on the steps as more than one turned their head to him.

In that moment, it became abundantly clear that this was no Targaryen ruin that was open to any jerk off the street. He ran through his mind and realized that he never actually saw any smallfolk in the Sept before. Not that he could remember.

He wasn't near enough for the guards to tell him off, but he knew, based off their energy, that he was not welcome to enter.

Seeking no fight in this city, he turned and made his way down without another word. Coming to the bottom of the steps, he wandered around the Sept and came to the statue of Baelor. A chill came over him as he scanned the square. It wasn't empty, but this crowd was simply going about their day. They weren't cheering for the Warden of the North to lose his head. They weren't hiding his youngest daughter. They weren't witnessing the beginning of a massive war…

Someone bumped into him and he recovered just in time to seize the young boy's arm. The boy turned to him, fear in his eyes. Tiresias jerked the boy close.

"My purse. Now," he whispered fiercely.

The boy instantly surrendered it and ran as Tiresias released him.

He attached the purse back to his belt, laughing softly to himself. The boy did have an impressive hand for thievery. It didn't relax his mood though. He held his breath and let it go on a count.

He needed a drink.

Unable to be too picky, he walked across the square to a tavern with outdoor tables. Most of which were full. He found an empty end of a bench and ordered a cup of wine. As tempted as he was not to face the statute and the Sept, he didn't like putting his back to the square. So he sat, reliving the scene of Ned's beheading again and again as laughter and cheers surrounded him from the full tables.

Had he done enough to prevent the death of Ned Stark in this city? He told the Warden explicitly to stay in the North. He supposed it depended whether or not he could resist the King, if he should still come north to bring his best friend to the capitol. He wondered if Jon Arryn would survive longer without Littlefinger in King's Landing. He wondered about the potential engagements. He wondered whether Mance had come to Castle Black yet…

Lowering his head, he rubbed his temples. He wondered too much. And he couldn't stop. Another thought came to his mind. Another man who met his end near the Sept. Or rather in it.

The serving girl appeared before him with the wine. He could smell the sourness of it already.

"Here," she said quickly, depositing it before turning to leave.

"Excuse me, miss," he called.

The serving girl turned back. "Aye?"

He glanced to the Sept of Baelor, towering over the surrounding buildings, before coming back to her.

"Do you know of anyone named the High Sparrow?"

"Wot?" she responded, a hint of impatience in her tone. He didn't hold it against her. The tourney was days away and the tables were full of customers willing to part with their coin. She didn't have time for strangers with strange questions.

"He's a septon. Runs a kitchen for the unfortunate. Doesn't wear shoes."

The girl's eyes only squinted further. Tiresias shrugged.

"A little grimy?"

A table across from him called for more ale. The serving girl nodded to them, before turning back to Tiresias.

"Never heard of him," she said as she strode back to fetch a full pitcher.

Tiresias took a sip of the sour wine. It wasn't the first time he had inquired about the High Sparrow. He had asked discretely every evening or so, in a different part of the city, in the taverns in between games and drink and all he received were blank looks. No one had heard of the cunning old fanatic. Apparently he hadn't come to King's Landing yet.

Maybe it would only be as the war ravaged the countryside and more smallfolk were displaced. He'd come to King's Landing then. But where was he now? It certainly didn't help that he was probably lying about his origins or that he was so vague with them. A cobbler? A son of a cobbler? Now a septon? Was he in the Stormlands? The Riverlands? The Vale? Did it matter?

Tiresias grimaced through another swallow. Probably not. And in any case, there wasn't a point. Perhaps if he came to King's Landing again, he'd find him. But at the same time, he'd consider it a blessing if he never saw the High Sparrow. Sure, the old man had some good points about the exploitation of the smallfolk, but religious fanatism was something best left alone. He certainly didn't want the man entering the politics of the South.

So what? Another assassination? Just kill him? Is that your solution now to everything?

He lowered his head, slightly ashamed that he didn't dismiss the idea right away. What the hell was he becoming?

Fortifying himself, he swallowed the last of his wine in two big gulps, dregs and all.

It was finally the day that Tiresias had been waiting for. He stood by the Gate of the Gods, waiting for the Northern retinue to arrive with the tax payments. Resisting the urge to exit the city to meet them on the road, he rooted himself to the ground and marked the time.

Gossip put their arrival in only a few hours. He had a feeling though that it would be an early arrival. Sure enough, shouts from the top of the gate announced the arrival of the Stark men. It took another ten minutes, but he finally heard their horses trotting. As far as retinues for the Lord Paramount Houses went, it was easily the smallest. He estimated only twenty horses and two wagons. He supposed that made sense. They traveled the farthest and they weren't coming to participate in the tourney. Practicality over pageantry.

Soon, they came into sight. Tiresias instantly spotted the familiar face of Jory Cassel, leading the group. He was sweating profusely and his nose was wrinkled, the smell of the city hitting him hard. He wasn't the only one. Most of the soldiers were trying to keep stoic, but were cracking.

Tiresias grinned like an idiot. The Northern soldiers were a tough lot. But put them in the heat and the stink and they'll break.

He realized that he was far too judgmental, that he reacted the same as he first entered King's Landing, but he didn't care. His joy doubled as he spotted Gord's big frame. For the first time in five months, he saw people he knew.

The horses slowed to a walk. Their riders weren't familiar with the city. Tiresias stepped forward from the crowd, walking alongside gently as not to frighten the horses.

"Jory," he called. "Jory Cassel."

Jory turned and did a double take. He meant to get off his horse, but Tiresias shook his head and just kept walking beside him. Jory adjusted back into his saddle.

"Tiresias? Gods, man. It's been an age!" Jory said, looking down at him. "How long have you been here?"

Tiresias shrugged. "Month or so. How was the journey down here?"

"Long," responded Jory curtly. He looked around before turning back to him. "You met some bandits up North?"

Tiresias kept his face straight. "How did you know that?"

"Lord Stark told me. He received your note. We're supposed to escort you back when we return."

"All of you for little old me?"

"South with the taxes. North with the bookworm." Jory shrugged. "Just not supposed to leave King's Landing without you, is all."

Tiresias smiled. A true, genuine smile. "Well, I appreciate it."

He heard large feet hit the ground behind him and turned to see Gord coming up him.

"You bastard!" he said, hugging Tiresias tightly before letting him go and giving him a light punch on his shoulder. "The fuck you've been doing here?"

"Waiting for you to show. Should've known it'll take this long, with you coming."

"Piss off!" Gord said, laughing. He placed his arm around Tiresias' shoulder as they walked. He coughed as he breathed in. "Gods, this place reeks of shit. How long have you been here?"

"A month," muttered Jory, his eyes forward on the road. Gord looked to him and back to Tiresias.

"A month?" he repeated as he shook his head. "How do you stand it?"

"You get used to it," Tiresias said. "You're staying in the Red Keep, aye?"

"Aye," Jory confirmed. "Lord Stark was reserving rooms for us in the city when he received a personal invitation from the King for him and any of his house to stay in the Red Keep."

"Fancy that, Tiresias," Gord laughed, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "A sennight in the Red Keep. For one sennight, Gord and all these shitkickers will sleep like kings."

Tiresias chuckled. "Well, the smell of shit will be a little better in the castle from what I hear." He turned back to Jory. "A sennight though? So you're staying for the tourney?"

Jory nodded. "Just for the joust. Lord Stark agreed to it. Nothing'll be held like it in the North, so he agreed to it. We have invitations, but as there's no highborn in our ranks, we'll be in the lower stands."

"Fine by us," said Gord. "We can drink, swear, scratch our balls. Be complete mongrels…"

"Gord…" Jory muttered in a low warning tone.

"Aye, aye," said Gord, waving it off. "Completely polite and civilized mongrels."

Tiresias started to laugh. Gord gave him one last side hug, before releasing him.

"There's that laugh! I'm glad to see you, Tiresias. Foreign prick that you are."

"Cheers, Gord," Tiresias responded.

"It's true," said Gord. His tone became a little airy. "Not be the only one, either."

Tiresias remained silent, refusing to take the bait. Gord didn't care though.

"You know, yeh be pushing this deal of yours far. If we're not back in Winterfell in a month, which we won't, it'd be more than half a year."

Tiresias stared at him. "How do you know about that?"

"Ginn's my wife, you dolt."

Cursing himself silently, Tiresias focused back on the Red Keep. They were about a quarter of the way by now.

"Fine, stay mum." Gord leaned in. "All I'm saying is, you best have some mighty good horseshit to sell her when we return."

Jory spoke up. "That's enough, Gord. Leave him be. We still need to return in one piece."

Grateful for the save, Tiresia turned to Jory. "Will I be able to enter the Red Keep with you?"

Jory looked surprised at the question. "You should be. You're a man of House Stark as we are and the King is insistent that he host us. We're sharing rooms, but I'm sure we can find you a space…"

"That won't be necessary," said Tiresias. "I already have accommodations in the city. The Purple Rose inn. I just wanted to see the joust. And use the library as well."

Jory stared at him. He could feel Gord's bewildered look as well. "You don't want to sleep in the Red Keep?"

Tiresias shook his head. "Little fancy for my taste."

They entered the main thoroughfare that led directly to the Red Keep. Other streets from the main gates in the city merged into this thoroughfare. To his right, Tiresias heard another company coming. From the direction of the Lion Gate…

"Halt your horses," he said.

"What? Why?" asked Jory.

"Another company is coming and they're not slowing. Halt them now!"

Jory turned and gave the order, just before a larger company came billowing down from the west. A single banner led them. A yellow banner with three black dogs…

"Fuck me…" breathed Gord, as the rest of the company came into view.

Tiresias couldn't blame him. He had encountered taller men before, but nothing prepared him for seeing the Mountain on his giant destrier. Ser Gregor Clegane pounded the streets as he rode for the Red Keep. Aside from the one banner, there was no vanguard to clear the way and the citizens scattered to make room for him and his men.

He didn't wear his full armor and Tiresias caught a look at his face. Once he saw it, he couldn't look away. The Mountain's eyes were pitiless and focused on the Red Keep and the prize purse he sought.

I didn't think…of course, he would be here…and if so…

Thankfully neither Ser Gregor nor his men spared any glances their way. They rode straight past and the Stark company was left in the silence that followed. Quickly though the streets recovered and people went back to their business. Jory gently kicked his horse and they carried on.

Gord spat on the ground. "Raping, murdering fucker."

"Care to say that to his face?" asked a soldier from the back.

"Oh fuck off, Gerard!" Gord growled. Tiresias had never seen him this angry before. "We're all thinking it."

"Aye, we are," said Jory, emanating his uncle's authority naturally. "But we're not here to say or start anything. We're guests of the King. As is Gregor Clegane. We deliver the taxes. We watch the joust. We cheer and we go home. Is that too much for you men to handle?"

The men murmured an assent. Jory looked down to Gord, who shook his head.

"Nay, Commander, it's not." He looked aside to Tiresias, who stared ahead unblinking after the Clegane retinue. "You all right?"

Tiresias didn't answer. He was barely listening. The beginnings of another plan were brewing in his mind. Another opportunity. If only he could pull it off…

"Tiresias, you all right, mate?" Gord asked again, patting him on the shoulder.

He came to, but didn't take his eyes from the Red Keep. "Aye, Gord. I'm fine." He shrugged. "Just one big fucker, eh? Bigger than you."

"Aye," murmured Gord darkly. "The hell he's doing anyway? Coming into the city this late? Lord Tywin already arrived, aye?"

"Ser Gregor's not one for social graces," muttered Tiresias. "He rarely leaves his land except for combat and tourneys. I'd wager he waited until the last minute to leave his domain."

"Bet the whole damn keep sighs in relief when he's gone," muttered Gord. None of the men present disputed that or said anything else for that matter. In fact, the appearance of the Mountain Who Rides silenced them all for the rest of their journey to the Red Keep.

The murmurs of the smallfolk ceased around them as they crossed the bridge into the castle. The Gold Cloaks briefly questioned Jory before waving them on. As they passed under the gate, Tiresias looked up, squinting against the bright spring sky. He could feel the heat emanating from the red brick. It seemed less tall here than on the beach.

Obviously, you idiot. Tiresias lowered his head to take in his first actual welcome to the Red Keep.

It was a small mercy that when they entered the welcoming courtyard, Ser Gregor and his retinue had already departed for their chambers. Tiresias stood back and let Jory handle their arrival. A young guard spoke to a steward and once they had removed their personal belongings, their horses were escorted to the stables.

That left them with the chests full of coin for taxes. Jory turned to them.

"All right, men," he said, with a smartass cheer. "Who's ready for some exercise?"

Ultimately though they didn't have to carry the chests all the way to the Master of Coin, thankfully. Someone procured a series of trolleys and they stacked the chests on top. They didn't leave the trolleys though, despite the steward's pledge that it would be delivered. Jory's instructions were to not let this payment out of his sight until the Master of Coin himself personally accounted for it and provided him with a receipt for the records.

As Jory and a few selected soldiers escorted the coin, Tiresias stayed behind with the other men. Cups of water were brought to them. They sat in the shade for a good hour before a steward with neat hair appeared before him.

"Men, your quarters are prepared. If you'd follow me please…"

The quarters consisted of four rooms in the Outer Hold with five cots apiece. Tiresias let the rest of the men enter before seeing for himself. Gord claimed a bed by the door, sitting on it and bouncing to test it. He turned to see Tiresias leaning against the doorframe and grinned.

"Sure we can't tempt you, Tiresias? Kipping on the floor? Sharing some air with the five of us?"

Tiresias snorted. "I'm sure. Besides, for what I paid, I might as well stay in the city."

Gord shrugged, laughing lightly. "Suit yourself. I'm enjoying this castle when I can. Gods willing, I'll never have to come down south again to fetch you."

His ears perked at approaching footsteps. Grateful for an excuse not to retort, Tiresias turned to see Jory coming this way, escorted by another steward.

Jory stopped in the hallway, calling out. "All right, lads. Eyes and ears now."

All the soldiers exited into the hallway, giving Jory the requested attention.

"Before we all start drinking and gambling and being the respectful guests we are, we're still the representatives of House Stark and the North. Court's in session now and we're due to announce our arrival and pay our respects. I need four volunteers."

Four men stepped forward. Gord remained back. Jory nodded.

"All right. You lot tighten your uniforms and stand straight. Keep your hands off your weapons and prepare to kiss an arse or two. With all respect, of course."

After five minutes of everyone doing their best to look presentable, they fell into formation and followed the steward as they marched into the main keep, toward the Great Hall.

Tiresias followed behind them. He hadn't really asked if he could join them, but Jory didn't protest. His dagger was sheathed on his front. No one had bothered to check him for a weapon and he doubted anyone saw him as dangerous. However wishing to avoid any misunderstanding, he had adjusted his sheath to make his blade visible before they set to march through the castle.

On the way, he kept an eye out for the same courtyard that he came upon when he snuck up from the cellars. He had to make sense of the geography of this place very quickly. The drunken babbling of the servants was not all-encompassing.

Just as the smallfolk were replaced by guards and stewards as they entered the Red Keep, the guards and stewards were replaced with the murmurs and chatter of the highborn as they entered the inner part of the castle. The nobles seemed to join their direction as they turned the corner and spotted two large doors in the middle of the corridor.

Tiresias steeled himself.

Come on, man. You've been inside of cathedrals and castles before. You can do this.

However not of these medieval structures played host to a real court in his old world. None that Clark had witnessed during his travels. They turned into the Great Hall. And Tiresias felt a tingle run up his spine.

The last time he saw the Throne Hall, it was destroyed by dragonfire. It was whole now with radiant light that streamed through the stained glass windows. A sea of nobles filled the room. Tiresias thought his nose would burn with so many perfumes mixing with each other. The fabrics too…he hadn't seen this much expensive material in ages. Not in this world certainly.

But even the richest cloth in the world couldn't keep Tiresias' eyes from the other end of the room. The Iron Throne sat cold and heavy. It was also empty. A simple wood chair was positioned in front and below. An old man sat upon it. Even from this distance, Tiresias saw the pin glint on his chest from the sunlight.

Despite his age, Jon Arryn seemed spry. He could see why his sudden death caused a wave of suspicion throughout the capitol. With the absence of King Robert, Jon Arryn greeted all arrivals, taking their requests, their questions without a moment of hesitation. Apparently he was used to running court without the King present.

Occasionally, he turned to his side to address the hunched over Maester Pycelle, who stood by his side to offer a word of his own. Tiresias realized his fists were clenched and shook them out.

"Anything wrong?" asked Jory, catching the movement in his periphery.

Tireisas shook his head. "Nah."

Suppressing any feelings he had about the Maester, he lowered his voice and turned to Jory.

"I need a favor."

Jory's eyes remained front. "Aye?"

"Could you ask the Lord Hand if he'd permit the donation of a few tomes to the Winterfell library?"

That caused the young guard to turn to him. "Does Lord Stark know of this request?"

"Nah, but I won't be back here for a while. If I'm back at all." He met Jory's incredulous eyes. "What? Can't hurt to ask."

"You can ask him yourself if you want. You're part of the Winterfell retinue. You can speak."

"Jory, for the last month, I have had naught but endless inquisition about my accent, how I talk, where I'm from. And I'm very tired of it."

Tiresias didn't have to fake his frustration too much. His accent became a boring talking point years ago. At least in Winterfell, where everyone was used to him. Here in King's Landing, in his evenings at the taverns, it was half the conversation.

He sighed. "Please just ask on my behalf."

"Fine," said Jory, turning to the Lord Hand. It was their turn.

The herald announced them. Or rather just Jory by name. They approached Jon Arryn, halting the appropriate distance before him. Tiresias thanked whomever was listening that Robert wasn't in the room. Because the King wasn't present, there was no need to kneel. The court was content with a short bow from them all.

"My Lord Hand," said Jory, straightening. "Thank you for welcoming me and my men to the Red Keep. The taxes for this year from the North have been delivered in full to the Master of Coin. With all that out of the way, my men eagerly await the tourney, thank the Crown for such entertainment and above all, wish Prince Joffrey a very happy nameday."

Knowing of the Crown's increasing deficit, Tiresias wondered if anyone else in the throne room could discern the stress in Jon Arryn's face. He wondered who the Master of Coin was anyway, with Petyr Baelish dead. He didn't envy him, whoever he was. This tourney was going to cost a fortune. He didn't even want to think about how much additional food the North could import with that money.

Not wishing to showcase that sour thought, Tiresias exhaled through his nose, bringing his face to neutral. He caught Jon Arryn doing the same.

"The Crown thanks you for your well-wishes and is always glad to host the men of House Stark. As for the taxes, I'm sure that everything is quite in order." The Lord Hand smiled. "Lord Eddard was quite prudent about these matters, from what I remember."

Genuine affection colored the man's voice. Tiresias couldn't help but stare. It was strange to see Jon Arryn in this state. Last time, he was quite dead with stones covering his eyes.

"You're the nephew of Ser Rodrik Cassel, yes?" asked Jon Arryn. "How does he fare these days?"

"He fares well, my Lord Hand," responded Jory. "Quite hale and as strict as he ever was in the training yard."

Jory and Lord Arryn spoke a minute more. Tiresias suspected that the Lord Hand was relieved to have some connection to his former charge. It gave the man some life in the long days of welcoming the far reaches of Westerosi nobility to the capitol.

Whatever the reason, the conversation turned borderline casual and Tiresias turned his ear to the crowd. Jory wasn't a presence that would halt whispers and right now, the light conversation taking place wasn't enough to hold the full attention of the court. Lord Stark paid his taxes. A master-of-arms still breathes. The Lord Hand is nostalgic. Nothing of noteworthy value to the murmuring masses.

As such, Tiresias didn't blame the court for turning their attention away. However, he brought his own back just in time to hear Jory speak.

"If it pleases the Crown, my Lord Hand, we have another request."

Jon Arryn nodded, gesturing for Jory to continue.

"Winterfell is currently revitalizing the literary history of the North and placing a great effort in expanding its library. If the Red Keep has any tomes they would be willing to part with, Winterfell would be most grateful."

Maester Pycelle came to life for the first time since Jory stepped forward. "Revitalizing the Northern literary history?"

If Jory heard the skepticism in the maester's words, he didn't show it.

"Aye, Grand Maester. It's been a long time coming. Tomes have been gathered from all over the North. Consolidated and archived in the walls of the most impregnable castle north of the Neck."

"How long has this venture been underway?" asked Lord Arryn.

Jory considered it. "Five years, I'd say. This man…" He gestured to Tiresias, who felt the instant rush of eyes snapping to him. Those that were still listening. "This man has traveled all across the North to gather the materials. He's traveled here in hopes that the Red Keep would be so generous as to consider the request."

Lord Arryn turned to him. "What is your name?"

He could have cursed Jory Cassel. Announcing himself at the Royal Court was not his idea of a low profile. However he had no choice now. He stepped forward.

"Tiresias, my Lord Hand," he said. "I'm the librarian at Winterfell."

He gave a respectful, but short bow. Luckily most of the court were too preoccupied with their own business to give heed to this modestly-dressed stranger. The throne room was so big, that most couldn't even hear his unfamiliar accent.

Lord Arryn certainly did though. His eyes sharpened as Tiresias spoke. However, he was polite enough to press on.

"And what would you seek from the Red Keep's library?"

Tiresias swallowed. "Nothing that the Crown wouldn't be willing to part with. The Winterfell library is welcome to all topics. However our concentration has been the curation of tomes written in the Old Tongue."

He turned to Maester Pycelle. Not to acknowledge him in this request would be foolish.

"We realize that most of these volumes are found above the Neck. Outside of the North, Maester Luwin and I have only reached out to the bordering kingdoms; the Riverlands, the Vale. However, as we are currently in the capitol, we ask the Crown if they'd be willing to donate any tomes they have in the Old Tongue to the Winterfell library."

The skepticism in Pycelle's eyes didn't lessen. It was only through the Lord Hand that he would succeed and so he brought his attention back to Lord Arryn.

"Of course, Lord Stark has been generous to those who have donated such tomes. He is open to compensation."

He tried to say that straight. It was true that Ned insisted on compensating for the volumes donated, but he usually did that with preapproval. Tiresias had no idea how much the Crown would demand for these volumes.

It was also another time that he spoke for Lord Stark on the fly.

I'm sorry, Ned. Hope this works out. If not…hope you forgive me.

Lord Arryn pondered the request for a few seconds.

"How many volumes would you seek?"

Tiresias shrugged. "No more than five, my Lord Hand. If that many. I would have to see what's available. For all I know, I could only end up requesting one."

Maester Pycelle leaned down to Lord Arryn. "My Lord Hand, this request…it would require a great amount of time…my assistants would need to audit the entire catalog, determine the financial worth of the selected tomes, receive formal permission from his Majesty…"

Lord Arryn cut across his murmuring with a whisper. Tiresias picked it up even if the others didn't.

"You truly believe Robert cares one fig about some tomes?" he uttered low. "As for any volumes in the Old Tongue, if we have any, who in the name of the Father reads them? Who even can in this place?"

Tiresias worked to keep his face neutral. The Hand turned back to the Northerners.

"A donation won't be necessary. The Crown can spare five tomes in the Old Tongue to the Winterfell library. As the tourney begins in five days, Grand Maester Pycelle will only have time tomorrow in the late afternoon to catalog the tomes you take. Tiresias, will you be here tomorrow morning? A steward will show you to the library and bring you the possible tomes for you to peruse."

Tiresias bowed again. "I will. Thank you, my Lord Hand. Thank you, Grand Maester Pycelle."

Sensing the dismissal, the rest of the Northerners bowed and proceeded to exit the Great Hall. A few whispers followed them and Tiresias felt more eyes on his back than when he arrived, but all in all, it wasn't bad. The people in this room were here for blood and courtly intrigue. A nerd seeking tomes in a dead language wasn't nearly as exciting.

Tiresias chuckled to himself. Nerd. Haven't thought of that word in ages.

As they exited the Great Hall, Jory sighed.

"Glad it's over?" Tiresias asked.

"Didn't say that," responded Jory. "The Hand is a friend of Lord Stark, but I'm just like the other men. I'm tired, I've delivered the coin, we called upon the court, found you…"

"Well, actually, I found you."

"The point being…" Jory continued. "We're all tired. We're free now and we need to drink."

Tiresias fought the urge to admonish Jory for naming him in his request for the tomes. There was no one else to read the Old Tongue and he would have to be introduced at some point to do it. Fortunately, the Court barely cared about him and would probably forget him in the glory of the tourney in a few days' time.

Still, he was losing his anonymity bit by bit...well, rather in large chunks over the past few months. With what he had to do in the coming years, how much more could he expose himself?

The question certainly wasn't helped by the appearance of a familiar perfume approaching them. He turned to see a robed and bald man walking beside them, his feet padding the ground lightly.

"Good afternoon, Jory Cassel, gentlemen," said Varys. Jory stopped and stared, though he recovered enough to respond.

"Good afternoon, Lord…?" he trailed off. Tiresias wondered if Jory had ever seen such a person like Varys before in the North. Probably not.

The eunuch bowed his head. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Varys, the Master of Whispers on the King's Small Council."

Jory narrowed his eyes. "I've heard of you. You were on the Mad King's council, aye?"

If Varys was at all peeved at being connected to the previous regime, he didn't show it. He only nodded politely. "Indeed. It was the former King Aerys who summoned me from across the Narrow Sea."

Varys turned to Tiresias. "Tiresias, was it?"

Suppressing a smile, Tiresias nodded. "Aye?"

He hoped that sounded like a question. Varys held out both of his hands for a shake, which Tiresias obliged.

"It is so good to meet a fellow Essosi here in the Red Keep." He released Tiresias' hand, tucking his own back inside his robes.

"As the Crown is busy welcoming all for the Prince's tourney, I spoke to the Lord Hand just now after you left and volunteered to show you the library, immediately if you wish. So you will be able to use Grand Maester Pycelle's precious time more effectively on the morrow."

He raised his eyebrows. "Of course, if you're too weary from the travel, it could wait."

Milking it a little much, aren't you, Varys?

Tiresias shook his head. "No. Not tired at all. I actually arrived in King's Landing before the Northern retinue. I can see the library now."

He turned to Jory and his men, who were still regarding Varys with frank suspicion. They were far too open.

"I'll meet up with you lot later, aye?"

Jory nodded, his eyes darting from Tiresias to Varys. "Aye, we'll be resting for a bit. I'm sure a servant can direct you to where we'll be supping this evening?"

That question was directed at Varys, who nodded blithely. "Indeed."

Jory nodded back cautiously, before turning to Tiresias. "Until then." Then he turned and walked back in the direction of the guest quarters with the other Stark guards.

Varys gestured in the opposite direction. "This way, please."

They walked side by side through the castle. Tiresias listened as they walked, but thankfully they didn't attract the whispers or the glances that he expected. Perhaps Varys was just a common sight in these halls. Perhaps the general nobility of Westeros was disgusted by a foreign eunuch and did their best to ignore him.

And was he that much better? He was a foreign bookworm. He was boring. That was probably a greater sin in this court than anything else. He inspired tepid levels of gossip.

It was a lot to hope for. He couldn't imagine what the people thought; seeing him stroll through the Red Keep with the Spider. However, Varys seemed unconcerned and if that's how he played his role, Tiresias could hardly do better than to reciprocate.

After they had walked a good while away from the throne room and Tiresias was convinced that they were out of earshot, he turned to Varys.

"Are you actually leading me to the library?"

"Funny enough, I am. It would certainly be strange if the Lord Hand discovered I did otherwise." Vary turned to him, meeting his eyes. "And it would certainly be strange for a servant of Winterfell to be in King's Landing for only a tourney. Well played on your part; inquiring the Crown for literary donations."

Remembering to keep his face neutral, Tiresias kept his voice to a mutter.

"Does the Crown Spymaster usually escort lowly servants to the Red Keep's library?"

"The Crown Spymaster has a number of unusual activities that go on in this castle. A quick detour to the library to make a fellow foreigner feel welcome hardly qualifies."

"If you say so."

"I do." A group of handmaidens came around the corner. Varys nodded to them politely, but they ignored him and continued on. The Spider sighed.

"As long as we're speaking, may I ask where you're from in Essos? Or at least, where you've been saying you're from?"

Tiresias glared at him. "Not sure I appreciate that, Varys from Lys. We had a wager, remember?"

"I do," said Varys lightly. "Please forgive me. Where are you from in Essos?"

It wasn't worth the annoyance. Tiresias sighed and tried not to make his answer sound too recited. Though it certainly was.

"My family were nomads. We went back and forth between the Free Cities, the bays up North. Mostly Lorath."

Varys smiled, nodding. "That's good. My web is rather thin as it heads to the north. On both sides of the Narrow Sea."

"My life wasn't decided by your web."

The Spider nodded apologetically. "Of course not. I was merely going to say that my whispers carry strong throughout the Southern Kingdoms. The North…well, it's the North. Even as Wardens, the Starks and their bannermen seem content to sit in the snow. Above the game. The Court saw it today. Lord Stark is the only Lord Paramount not to attend the Prince's nameday tourney."

"It's a long journey. Lord Stark means no disrespect by his absence."

"And thankfully no one cares for his absence. Well, except for the King and he's more sad than insulted."

They had come to a pair of beautiful wooden doors that shone against the corridor of stone. Tiresias couldn't tell what wood it was, but he knew it was expensive. Varys stopped before the doors and turned to him.

"My point, Tiresias, is that the Crown's influence significantly lessens past the Neck. Up there...a boy may be safe from the wrath of a Queen or a future King."

Silence followed the eunuch's words. Tiresias strained his ears, but no one else was in the hall and if Varys chose to halt here and speak, then the tunnels that ran throughout the Red Keep probably didn't extend here. Varys' face had no strain of humor or lightness to it. His eyes were quite dangerous.

Tiresias met those eyes easily though.

"So, do you agree to send the boy North?"

"That depends. What is Lord Stark's plan for the boy?"

He could lie, but honestly, Tiresias felt like he had spoken enough falsities in Ned's name.

"I don't know what Lord Stark has in mind for the boy. Continue his apprenticeship, probably. Mikken, the Winterfell blacksmith, is nowhere near the level of Tobho Mott, but he's good and Gendry will finish his trade."

Tiresias shrugged. "Perhaps, due to his father, he might be taught to be read. Anything to help the boy's future. We're displacing the lad. We owe him something."

"What do you owe?" Varys asked. "What will he be satisfied with? What will he claim? A King's bastard raised under a Lord Paramount?"

"You said it yourself, the North hardly cares a thing for the South. Lord Stark has no interest in the power games at Court. He certainly won't bring Gendry up to claim any Baratheon birthright. He won't support him if he does. And if the North doesn't support a bastard usurper, the Stormlands and the Crownlands certainly won't. Can you imagine Lord Stannis welcoming the boy or any of his illegitimate halfsiblings to Dragonstone? Will Lord Renly bring them to Storm's End?"

Varys peered at him, considering his words. Tiresias sighed.

"I've lived for a few years in Winterfell and believe me, it's easy to see that ruling the North requires all of Lord Stark's energy and time. He only wants to save the boy, not press a claim."

The spymaster's expression didn't change, though his eyes did flicker to the corner of the corridor. They were still alone. Everyone who was anyone was resting before supper.

"Will the boy be safe?" asked Varys. Tiresias thought he heard a sincerity in the Spider's tone that he hadn't heard before. "Will Lord Stark keep the boy safe?"

Tiresias stepped forward, lowering his voice even more.

"You were here to see his face. You heard his words when Lord Tywin brought in the corpses of Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen. What do you think?"

He tried to see what Varys was thinking. But that little hint of sincerity was gone. If it was ever there to begin. Varys was an actor before he became a spy.

But he had also seen Varys genuinely care for some things. Children, the realm, the downtrodden…right now, the Spider was considering what to do to. What was the benefit to himself? To all?

Finally, Varys exhaled through his nose, checking the corridor one last time before turning back to Tiresias.

"Do you plan to move into the Red Keep or continue your stay at the Purple Rose?"

"The Purple Rose."

"Then I will get instructions to you there. I will ask that you not notify your soldier friends that they will have an extra companion on their journey home. The boy's exit from the city needs little attention."

Keeping a triumphant grin from his face, Tiresias nodded. "I agree. And the boy's apprenticeship fees? What you wish for compensation?"

Varys blinked at him. "I only wish for the boy's happiness and safety."

Tiresias waited. Finally the Spider sighed. "And thirty dragons should cover the rest."

A mix between a scoff and a laugh came from Tiresias before he could stop it. "Fine," he said.

Varys smiled for the first time since they met outside the Throne Room. Then he gestured to the doors. "The library, Tiresias of Lorath. Pardon me," he corrected, seeing Tiresias' face. "Tiresias of Winterfell."

The library was an impressive room, though rather devoid of any readers. Varys ushered him to the castle librarian, who looked bored out of his mind. Despite the barbaric reputation of the North, the librarian seemed grateful for something to break the monotony. His eyebrows rose further and further as Varys explained Tiresias' presence and his aim in collecting tomes in the Old Tongue.

As the librarian strode into the rows to begin pulling tomes, Varys bowed and departed the library. Tiresias watched him leave, but the Spider didn't look back once. Which he was grateful for. As soon as the library doors closed on him, Tiresias leaned against the table and sighed, grateful to be out of Varys' peering eyes.

Thirty dragons…all right, then. Not the worst. Lots of wealthy people here to lose some coin.

He was taken out of that spiral by the reappearance of the librarian, pushing a trolley stacked with only a few tomes.

"I'm afraid that these are all I could find for now," he wheezed, placing the tomes one on top of another on the table by the hearth. "As for the rest…I would need the rest of the evening and the morrow to heed your request."

Tiresias nodded, sitting at the table. "That's fine. I'll peruse these for now, but I'll truly start to examine them in the morning. Determine whether or not Lord Stark would want them."

He pulled the first tome toward him, opening it gently. After a few seconds, he looked up to see the librarian staring at him.

"You can decipher these runes?"

Tiresias shrugged. "Most of them. Would it be possible to have a quill and paper? I'll need to make some notes."

Five minutes later, the librarian returned with his items. Tiresias rolled up his sleeve, preparing to write.

"I assume that I will be able to leave my notes here, undisturbed until the next morning?"

The librarian nodded. "I should imagine so, my lord. The rest of the castle is quite preoccupied. Thanks be to the tourney."

"Indeed," said Tiresias, picking up his quill. "As for the other tomes you find, stack them on this table please and leave them for me overnight as well. I should be done by tomorrow evening and know which tomes we'll be carting back North with us."

The blunt instruction coming out of him felt a little odd. However, this was not Winterfell and the Red Keep ran on a strict hierarchy. Everyone answered to someone. Still, he felt he had to make a minor correction.

"Also, I'm no lord."

Looking only slightly embarrassed, the librarian nodded and strode off to find the other tomes.

Thankfully, he didn't get too lost in the pages. It was only an hour before he left the library. The librarian called a page and instructed him to escort Tiresias to where the Northern soldiers were dining. They walked silently through the halls. Tiresias peered at the back of the page's head. He wondered whether or not this man belonged to Varys or the Queen or someone else. Was he even important enough to be spied upon?

They descended from the uppers levels of the Red Keep down to where the smaller halls were located. After exiting a spiral staircase, they emerged onto a stone balcony bordering a courtyard below.

Tiresias' heart stopped and restarted again as he took the view in. A watchtower across from them stood on the edge of the castle, looking out over the Blackwater. He went to the edge and paused, looking down at the courtyard. It was familiar too. As well as the sheer wall of the castle that stood on the other side…

His escort didn't realize that he had stopped and he was treated to the sound of his feet doubling back.

"My lord?" asked the page.

He turned to face the young man, not bothering to correct him on the lordship. "Is there a privy nearby?"

The page nodded. "Yes, my lord. Right this way."

They walked the rest of the way around the courtyard before coming to the stairs that the Lannister soldiers patrolled. After descending them, Tiresias slowed as they walked past a corridor.

There was no doubt in his mind as he peered down the corridor. It looked the same, smelled the same. The cellars were there. And so was his backdoor into the Red Keep. He knew how to get here now.

Unless, of course, he forgot. He ran through the steps he took from the Great Hall to the library and here, trying desperately to etch it into his mind. Inside the privy, he stood and ignored the stench, concentrating. He knew that once he joined his Northern friends, they would regale him with tales of the road, demanding his in return as the ale flowed freely.

He didn't certainly intend to let his secret route be compromised by any drink or merriment. It would have to be locked away, secured. As deep as Balerion's skull in the cellars of the Red Keep.