Chapter 31

Tiresias opened the door and sauntered slowly into the dawn. The sun was beginning to shine from the east and it blinded him slightly. It was worth it though. The only cool breeze in the day occurred before the sun came up. It helped the nausea.

He sat down on the bench and sighed, doing his best not to jostle his arm. Ten days had passed since the duel. Last night was the first time that he could finally swallow food without any pain. As for the arm, it brought back agony which, even before he came to Westeros, he had done his best to forget. The first few nights were horrible…

But they could have been a lot worse. After the maester made a splint for his arm and tended to the shallow gash on his chest, he came to another potentially stupid decision: he had to leave Deep Den.

So mere hours after felling the Mountain, Tiresias ambled out of the castle fort into the night, with Gendry, Jory and a vial of Milk of the Poppy. He threw down more coin for that precious relief than he was comfortable with. But he remembered the pain from Clark's childhood and he was determined to stay ahead of it.

They reached the Goldroad, leading their steeds by the reins–Jory held his horse–but which way to go? Further west was a road north to Hornvale. Which sounded good to him. Beyond Hornvale, the road would lead to the Golden Tooth on the Riverroad. From there they could travel to the Kingsroad and head north.

Tiresias tried to suggest this, suppressing the urge to vomit and ended up coughing and rasping. He could feel the eyes of Gendry and Jory on his back, their incredulity. He could barely walk a thousand yards without feeling nauseous. He certainly was in no condition to trek north just yet.

Just as he was resolving to camp with a fractured limb, he heard steps coming from Deep Den, hurrying towards them.

"Sers! Sers!"

Their party turned to see Henri the innkeeper, coming down to the Goldroad. His purse was heavier than before. Tiresias heard the coins clinking together. Lord Lydden must have forced the Mountain's men to pay up.

Henri halted before them, trying not to pant.

"I've heard…" he wheezed before swallowing and starting again. "I've heard…and see that you've declined the hospitality of Deep Den."

Tiresias was too tired to speak. He nodded instead.

"Aye," said Jory. "We…" He glanced to Tiresias. "We thought it best."

Henri turned to Tiresias, the obvious question in his eyes.

He finally found his strength to answer. "Didn't feel right," he rasped. "Killing a man. Sleeping in the same place."

All right, it wasn't an adequate answer. The Milk of the Poppy was coming in strong though and he was beginning to nod his head.

"Well," Henri said, deciding to move on. "There be another place nearby. Was a murder there, but t'weren't yours."

A shadow of the deranged man who demanded justice early this morning was present on Henri's face. However, the man swallowed and continued.

"A room with four beds sits in my inn. Empty now and it'd be yours. If you want. However long you need. That arm…along with the rest of you…looks in need of a good rest."

He brought his eyes to the rest of the group. "What say you?"

And so for the past ten days, Tiresias, Jory and Gendry found themselves hosted at the Goldroad inn. The first night, Tiresias remembered to elevate his arm, resting it upon the pillow from the fourth bed.

He woke up twice due to the pain. It wasn't just the arm. The gash on his chest was hot under the bandage. His throat still ached. Despite his efforts to reach the vial quietly, Jory heard him fumbling and got up to assist him. Thankfully he only needed it the first night.

He slept off and on for two days. On the third morning, with the help of Jory, he managed to bathe without getting his splint wet, trying not to wince as he moved his arm. Thankfully the gash was healed enough not to require a bandage.

His chest didn't hurt anymore too. Maybe that was due to the deep fucking ache that pulsed from his arm. But as tempted as he was to drink the whole vial, the Milk of the Poppy was like any other painkiller. It wouldn't do to become addicted to it. So he moderated his doses and pushed the ache down as far as he could, breathing deeply through his nose.

What did Clark with his broken arm to distract from the pain? Television? He couldn't remember what a television even looked like any more. School? Books? No books here. The tomes from the Red Keep's library were headed to Winterfell. Maybe they had already arrived.

With his arm, he couldn't even help out around the inn. Despite Henri's initial objections, Gendry and Jory began to help out around the establishment. Heavy-lifting and such. No one said it, but they mostly took the work of the dead son. As for the daughter, she was recovering from her own injuries, secluded to the innkeeper's quarters. They hadn't seen her yet.

So Tiresias was left alone with his pain during the day, except for meals. Not that he didn't prefer it. Jory, Gendry, the innkeeper…they couldn't do anything. Only time would heal it. Maester Seamas said two months…

He tried not to bemoan the wait. He was alive. Resting for two months was a slight price.

Christ, he was actually alive…

After the first sennight, when his arm didn't feel like it was on fire, he began to take short walks in the woods. It's why he was out here this morning. Earlier and earlier to catch the coolness coming from the mountains. The summer here was more apparent. The hot sun in the afternoon made his arm itch.

He discovered a calm nook in the nearby stream, shaded. It took a little effort with one hand, but he managed to take off his boots and soak his feet. He sat there every morning for a solid time, listening to the forest, trying not to think. It was easier than he thought.

Maybe it was the pain, the seclusion or the idyllic mountain scenery, but he often forgot that Ser Gregor Clegane was now dead.

And I killed him, didn't I? I saw him fall. Felt his blood. Put a dagger in his brain…

A part of him didn't want to believe it. He didn't know why, but when he returned to the inn every afternoon, he knew it to be true.

Jory and Gendry made an admirable effort not to treat him differently. They made conversation, cut his meat and tended to his horse. However, their eyes lingered on him longer than usual, their words a bit more clipped…something had changed.

Thankfully this behavior abated rather quickly. Over the past sennight, they seemed to relax and it was as though they were merely traveling again. Just a group of three held up at an idyllic mountain inn.

That didn't stop others though. The retinue of Westerland knights may have passed on, but the inn still had customers and before long, the gossip had reached the whole area around Deep Den. Silent stares followed him as he entered the tavern for dinner. The silence turned into whispers. Surprisingly Tiresias found it easy to ignore them. He focused on his meal, talked with Jory and Gendry and eventually the partially-full tavern would buzz with its own chatter.

Still, the stares and murmurs persisted. Jory and Gendry didn't have his ears and they still heard it. The previous evening, when Gendry went up to sleep, Jory and Tiresias went outside with their ales. Well, Jory had ale. Tiresias sipped water. And they were silent, listening to the evening.

Finally he couldn't help it. He didn't look to Jory when he spoke.

"I've made life much more complicated for myself, haven't I, Jory?"

Jory waved his hand. "Nahhh…well, maybe. It's all right. We'll…look, we'll get back to Winterfell. And this all will…"

His words faded and he took a covering draught. Tiresias smiled unwillingly. The man was a good sport. To be fair, he didn't have anything to add either. He didn't mind the silence.

Silence was present this morning as well as he hiked to his nook. Thankfully it wasn't far. He could smell the stream from the inn, but most travelers didn't venture into the forest. They only trotted back to the Goldroad.

Most of them aren't up at dawn either.

The strong rays of the summer sun were tempered by the tree cover. And once he came to the water, he could ignore the heat entirely. After removing his boots, he waded carefully into the stream, before sitting back on the bank. The current wasn't strong enough to keel him over, but he didn't want to risk falling and hurting his arm again.

He leaned against a rock and finally allowed himself to relax, feeling the water run over his feet. The ache in his arm lessened. He ran a finger over his shirt along the scab on his chest. It would make a good scar one day.

Birdsong and running water lulled him and he couldn't think. Couldn't plan. He tried to for a few days. Tried to figure out his next move, the repercussions of his actions. How best to react.

And every time he did, he found himself simply staring at the running stream. Not a single coherent thought took hold in his brain.

Maybe I'm just tired. How long has it been since I walked out of Winterfell to kill Ramsay? Telling myself I'll go home when it's done. Telling myself that whenever I think something new to do…

Perhaps deep down, he knew that rest and relaxation were luxuries he could hardly afford. But there weren't luxuries. He needed to rest. To heal. Otherwise, he would break before the first White Walker came to the Wall, before the first dragon flew to Westeros…

He laughed softly. Well, I'm already broken…

A splash interrupted his meditation. He opened his eyes, turning to see a young girl with blonde hair and bruises that were near completely faded. She was staring at him.

Tiresias nodded. "Hello Layna."

He remained seated. The girl looked petrified and it wouldn't serve to get up and come closer. Accepting that the girl was in no mood for pleasantries, he looked around the bed and came back to her.

"Did I steal your secret spot?"

She didn't answer that question either. In fact, her only response was to turn and scamper away into the trees, back to the inn. Tiresias resisted the urge to call after her, to placate her…

There's nothing you can do or say. She was still raped. Her brother's still dead. She still has to process it. Thirteen years old…

He noticed his left hand was shaking and clenched his fist to stop it.

What? Were you expecting a thank you? Gratitude? Tears of joy, smiles and eyes full of adulation for her savior?

Grow the fuck up.

He closed his eyes again, sighing.

Besides you're no savior. Rosie's proof enough of that. Buried and lost with her monster. One of them anyway…

Reaching into his pocket, he took out the vial. Something stilled his hand though, as taking a painkiller in the middle of a self-loathing rant wasn't the smartest move. He knew that. In school, Clark refused to drink while he was sad…refused to encourage those thoughts.

However, right now…the ache was returning in force. He placed a drop in his mouth and felt his world glaze over. The water ran cool over his feet. He wondered if Rosie, as deep as she was, could still feel the rain seeping through the dirt.

A few days later, Jory and Henri were rolling empty ale barrels outside and setting them along the wall. Tiresias sat on the bench, facing the trees as usual, listening to them rustle in the wind.

"How fares the arm?"

He turned to see Henri facing him. Jory had already returned inside.

"It fares," Tiresias replied. "Should be ready for light travel in a fortnight. Perhaps less."

Henri waved that off. "Your room is yours as long as you need. Your friends as well."

He made to go back inside.

"Henri," Tiresias called, pausing the innkeeper in his doorway. "May I speak to you please?"

Henri thought for a quick second, before nodding and stepping forward. Knowing his schedule was busy, Tiresias didn't hesitate.

"I think you should leave the Westerlands."

The innkeeper blinked at him. "What?"

"Leave the Westerlands. You and Layna. Sell the inn. Travel to a different kingdom and start over. If you can."

It was a thought that he had for the past sennight. Henri didn't turn red or raise his voice as Tiresias spoke. He settled into himself, complete surety accompanying his words.

"This inn has been my family's business for years. Going back before the conquest. I've been here my whole life, Tiresias. I will be here my whole life."

"That might not be very long if you stay here," said Tiresias, meeting his determined eyes.

"What do you mean?" said Henri. "The ones who came and…they reside hundreds of miles west of here. Lord Lydden sent them on their way. They'll not ride back here."

"Henri, how do you think Lord Tywin will react to Ser Gregor's death?"

It took a moment of silence before the innkeeper could respond.

"There was nothing illegal about that death," he said firmly. "That trial; it was requested by…by him. It was blessed by the Septon. Preceded over by Lord Lydden."

"And you believe Lord Tywin will accept that?" Tiresias asked softly. "No, I'm damn sure Lord Lydden will face some backlash for it. I'm certain that Polliver and the rest of the Mountain's men will. Why do you think you won't? I killed Lord Tywin's beast in your name."

His arm pinged and he winced at the pain. Henri came forward but Tiresias raised his other hand, stilling him. He breathed until the pain pulsed slighter and slighter.

"If you stay here," he continued, wiping the sweat off his forehead. "I wouldn't be surprised if, within a few months' time, you'll wake up to your inn burning to the ground. Sell it all now. Take your daughter and go to another kingdom. South to the Reach. East to the Stormlands. Wherever, just…"

Trailing off, he brought his hand to his throat. The pain wasn't entirely gone and it returned whenever he talked too much. Maybe that's why he had craved silence in the past fortnight.

A cup of clear water appeared before him, offered by Henri. He drank gingerly, handing the empty cup back.

"Thank you," he murmured.

Henri didn't respond for a bit. Finally he sighed.

"If I sell…there's no getting enough coin to set up elsewhere. Layna and I…we'll be beggars, mere servers and cooks, getting pittance. We wouldn't have anything. Her children and their children wouldn't have anything. It'll take generations for my family to have anything of their own again."

"At least, you'll have a family." Tiresias met his eyes. "I can't fight for you again. Even if my arm was healed."

He tried to say that gently. However Henri didn't look offended.

"I wouldn't ask you to. Gods, I didn't ask you the first time. I thank you for your concern. I thank you again because I'll never be able to thank you enough in this life for standing for me…but I'm staying. Layna's staying."

Henri turned back to the inn.

"You should leave for Layna's sake," said Tiresias. "She's a whore now, you know. That's what the records show. I killed Clegane on charges of theft of service, not rape. Not murder. To all concerned, Layna took the coin and Simos attacked the men for no reason."

Henri froze at the door. He didn't turn back. Tiresias swung his leg around, straddling the bench. "She has to live with that now. If she stays. But in another kingdom…she wouldn't have to and she wouldn't have to enter that tavern room again either. Wouldn't have to see where she was taken. Where her brother was killed. She just…she'll never have to see it again."

The trees' rustle was the only sound for a good while. Tiresias wondered if he went too far. Whether he, Jory and Gendry would be thrown out. He waited for the outburst, but Henri didn't show any anger. When the innkeeper finally turned, his eyes were downcast, his voice soft.

"She's not the only one," Henri murmured. "I see Simos. I see her as well. Whenever I serve anyone in that hall, I see them both. And I can still hear them…hear them laughing over her screams…"

He turned to Tiresias, meeting his eyes. He didn't seem angry, just weary.

"But still I serve. It's what I do. It's my lot. Hers as well."

And with that, Henri entered the inn, leaving Tiresias alone with the rustling trees. He ran a hand over his buzzed head. The hair was coming back in.

Maybe you should take your own advice, man. This is a lovely inn, but you should leave the Westerlands soon.

He eyed his splint. Travel was still not a smart choice at this point. Maybe a sennight more and he could handle the jostle of the horses. He'd talk to Jory and Gendry tonight.

His companions took to the idea. They expressed concern over his ability to travel, but ultimately they came around. They were patient and hardworking, but even so, working chores around an inn for more than a fortnight was taxing. In addition to caring for an invalid.

They informed Henri of their decision. The innkeeper wished them well and made no mention of his previous conversation with Tiresias. It was as if it never happened.

Maybe he preferred it that way. Tiresias didn't relish the idea of spending his final sennight at this idyllic hideaway with a seething host. They prepared for the long ride back to Winterfell, which involved fixing the saddles for more provisions.

Gendry sat on the bench around the back, sewing hooks into the saddles, to hang more sacks. It was more complicated than it seemed. The weight around the saddles had to be spaced and distributed evenly, else the horse would soon become uncomfortable.

Not that Tiresias was much in charge of it. He held a loose bit every now and then with his good arm to assist, but he was as useless as he ever was.

More so than Jory, Gendry looked at him differently ever since Deep Den. Which didn't surprise him. He'd only known the lad briefly and he was young. Still, it seemed that he was finally working up to his question.

Sure enough, Gendry swallowed. "How'd you beat him?" he asked, his hands still working, his eyes still down.

For a brief second, Tiresias was tempted to be a smartass and ask Gendry to clarify. However he didn't feel like playing that game.

He sighed. "Danced around him. Poked him enough. He grabbed me. Brought me close and I put a dagger in his eye."

Silence followed his words for a while. Probably a more brief recounting than Gendry expected, but the lad moved on.

"You're a librarian, aye? You read and write?"

"That's not quite all I do, but…yes, I read and write."

"So where'd you find time to fight?"

Tiresias shrugged. "In the evenings. The practice yard. Have a soldier friend who spars with me. Taught me which end goes where." The hook secured, he removed his finger, looking to Gendry. "Do you fight?"

The lad shook his head. "Nah, just make the weapons."

"Don't you want to learn? I'm sure you could wield a sword. Though, honestly…I see you swinging a war hammer. You're certainly strong enough."

Gendry paused, before shrugging and continuing to set the hook. "I like hammering. But no lord will let me hammer anything outside the forge."

Tiresias shrugged himself. "Maybe when we get back to Winterfell, Jory and I can speak to Lord Stark. Jory's well respected in the guard. Feel like if you want to learn to fight, you could do so."

Gendry didn't respond to that. Not needed at the moment, Tiresias turned back to the trees. His ears tuned to the wind that came from the west. He wondered from how far away he could smell the Sunset Sea if he rode that direction. There was a deer stalking with her doe about five hundred yards away. Birds were beginning to sing again…

But this singing…it sounded different. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. It sounded like a warning…

"Blacksmiths don't get to fight," said Gendry. "I don't think Master Mott knows how to fight, and he makes better weapons than the rest. I think if I…"

"Gendry, be quiet."

The lad lowered the saddle. "What? I'm just saying if I…"

"Gendry, I'm serious. Be quiet. Do you hear that?"

Having heard the signaling from the birds before he actually heard what was bothering them, he got up from the bench and crossed to the corner of the inn. From here, he could see the Goldroad and hear a low thundering of hooves coming from the west…

He heard Gendry come to his side, but he kept his eyes on the road.

The hooves were now near enough to be heard by everyone else. He felt Gendry's eyes turn to him.

"It's just travelers, Tiresias."

Said travelers finally came into view through the trees. At least twenty men. With red and gold banners. Tiresias made out the gold lion before any of the faces.

Tiresias grabbed Gendry with his good arm and ushered him back around the corner, out of sight from the road. He heard the hooves beginning to slow down.

"What?" Gendry asked, his eyes wide.

"Lannister soldiers," Tiresias muttered. He spun the boy around, looking him dead in the eye. "Listen to me, Gendry. Until they've passed, you and Jory are strangers to me. Understand?"

If Gendry had any questions, he put them down. The soldiers were coming to the front of the inn. He heard only a select few dismounting.

"Where is Jory anyway?" He lowered his voice to a murmur. "Is he still in the room?"

"I think so…"

"Go to him. Tell him not to come down. I'll come up when I can. Go now."

He blessed the lad for being quick on the uptake. Gendry's brow furrowed deeper, but he walked quickly to the back door and disappeared through it.

Tiresias positioned himself on the corner, peering around. The horses were breathing heavily. A few whipped their reins as they shook their heads. And thick footsteps thudded the wooden planks as the select few soldiers ascended the stairs to the inn.

He took a deep breath and turned the corner, ambling as casually as he could along the side. More and more soldiers came into view until he reached the front of the inn and the whole patrol was present. Twenty soldiers, armed and armored, mounted on their destriers…he thought. Years in this world and he still couldn't properly name horses.

Resisting the urge to scratch under his splint, he met the eyes of a few soldiers who looked his way. He nodded politely and turned to the opened door, where the backs of two soldiers framed who could only be the commander. Tiresias paused a safe distance before the door.

The commander seemed to be in the middle of an announcement.

"…ask for your full cooperation. I repeat, we seek the warrior named Tiresias. We've received word that he has stayed here for a time. If he's still here, we demand that he identify himself. If he's traveled on, we demand all assistance in pointing us in his direction."

Not wanting anyone to rat him out, Tiresias stepped forward, well aware of the eyes of the other soldiers.

"Excuse me…commander?" he called lightly.

The soldiers in the door frame turned, including the commander, helmet in hand, revealing dark blonde hair and a well-worn scar along his cheek. He seemed to be no more than thirty.

"Aye, stranger?" said the commander.

"Whom did you say you were looking for? I'm afraid I didn't hear…"

"Tiresias," stated the commander quickly, cutting off his sentence. "A warrior, not of the Westerlands. We hope to locate him."

Well, at least he pronounced it correctly.

He scratched his head. "Well, I'm not sure about the warrior part. My name is Tiresias though."

Twenty pairs of eyes seemed to bore holes into his back, over his sides where he should have a weapon but didn't. The dagger was upstairs in his room. He kept his gaze forward, as nonchalant as he could possibly could. The commander met his gaze, his expression morphing slowly into incredulity as he stepped forward.

"You are Tiresias?"

"Aye."

"You're the one who slew Ser Gregor Clegane in a trial-by-combat at Deep Den?"

The man said it professionally enough, but Tiresias could hear the bewilderment in his tone.

"The big fella? Aye, broke my fuckin' arm 'fore he went." He gestured to his splint. "That was more than a fortnight ago. Fought for the innkeeper here, Henri."

As if on cue, Henri appeared at the doorway, rubbing his hands with a cloth.

"May I be of some assistance to ye, gentlemen?" he said.

The commander turned to him. "Are you the proprietor of this establishment?"

Henri blinked. "I run this inn here, aye…"

"You were present at the trial-by-combat at Deep Den, where Ser Gregor fell?"

Though his eyes hardened at the name, Henri managed to nod. The commander gestured to Tiresias.

"Is this the man who slew him?"

The innkeeper glanced to him before nodding. "Aye. He fought in me name."

For a few seconds, there was naught but birdsong in the air. Tiresias tried to wait it out, but the commander seemed a little unable to process what he had just heard. It made for quite a silence. And though Tiresias had been enjoying those these past few sennights, he wanted to break this one up. He didn't trust silent soldiers, just staring at him.

"May I have your name, commander?" he said. "You already have mine."

That snapped the commander out of his head and he cleared his throat. "Captain Artos Lantell, from Casterly Rock. I have a direct order from Lord Tywin Lannister to find you and escort you to the Rock. Our Lord requests your presence."

Tiresias glanced back to the soldiers surrounding the inn. They seemed torn between bewilderment and wariness upon meeting the slight, injured man who downed Ser Gregor. A light laugh escaped him as he turned back to the Captain.

"Requests, aye?" He was left smiling without finding anything particularly funny. "His word or yours?"

Artos didn't answer him, leaving Tiresias only to shrug.

"Not sure he needed you all. Could have just sent a messenger out. Would have traveled quicker without you lot."

"Our Lord is concerned for your protection," the Captain answered immediately. This man cared not for airy suggestions. "We're here to escort you."

Whether you like it or not was the part left unsaid. Tiresias sighed quietly. His ego wasn't raised by his defeat of Ser Gregor. Even with a healed arm, there was no victory against twenty plus men all at once. Without a weapon no less.

Anyway, he'd caused enough trouble in this part of the country. Best to ride the rest out as quietly as possible. Try and leave in one piece.

He plastered on a smile.

"Well, gentlemen. If Lord Tywin is so sweet that he sends you out to fetch me, I suppose it's only fair that I ride with you."

Captain Artos nodded, walking down the stairs to his level. "We have a mount for you, should you need one."

Tiresias shook his head. "No need, Captain, no need. I've my own horse. She's been resting as I have these last few sennights. Unfortunately, this damn arm is quite limiting. If one of your men would be so good as to saddle her…"

Artos instructed two of his men to head to the stables and retrieve his horse. After giving the two men the description of the animal, Tiresias turned back to the Captain.

"I need to fetch my things, Captain. And I need a little time to pack. I'm afraid I wasn't prepared to leave today."

"Of course," said Artos nodding. "One of my men will come and assist you."

"No need, Captain," Tiresias declined with a smile. "It won't take long. I'll be down before your men return with my horse."

He walked past the Captain before he could protest and entered the inn, hoping Artos didn't take offense or suspicion at the rejection.

Whatever. He'll have more opportunity to boss me around during the ride to Casterly Rock.

It was easy for Tiresias to maintain a casual step as he proceeded up the stairs and to his room. His arm was sore if he jostled it too much.

The door to the room stood ajar and Jory looked ready to kick it open. Tiresias raised a single finger to his lips, pleading for silence. Jory nodded jerkily and moved for Tiresias as he entered the room. Gendry was there as well.

Jory shut the door. Not as calmly as Tiresias would have hoped.

"What the hell is going on?" he whispered.

Tiresias crossed to his rucksack and placed it on the bed. "I'm going to Casterly Rock. On Lord Tywin's orders."

"What?"

"Well, strictly, it's an invitation." Tiresias opened the rucksack and dug for the bottom. "However, those twenty odd soldiers down there are quite determined for me to accompany them."

Jory came up to him. "We can get away. If we just…"

"No, Jory," Tiresias interrupted. He had very limited time alone. "We can't. Listen to me."

He pulled out the letter that he written for Lord Stark before the trial-by-combat. With the painful excitement after the trial, he had forgotten to destroy it. It was still sealed and still quite relevant. He also retrieved the small wrapped package that he had carried since King's Landing.

As he pulled out the package, his fingers brushed another suspicious object at the bottom. Managing to get a good grip, he pulled out the small-mouthed jar containing the remains of the Resting Wisp. He had almost completely forgot he carried it…

Tiresias threw it onto the bed.

Best not get caught with that in the Rock.

With all these items out, he began to repack as quickly as he could. Without saying a word, Gendry came over and began to help, folding and rolling his spare shirt and cloak. Tiresias sighed in relief.

"Thank you, Gendry." He turned back to Jory.

"I need you to escort Gendry to Winterfell." He tapped the package and the letter. "Deliver these two items to Lord Stark as well. Put the jar in the desk in my room. Be careful with it. After I leave, wait a couple of hours and then head west. Go to Maester Seamas at Deep Den and send a raven to Winterfell. Tell Lord Stark I've accepted an invitation to Casterly Rock. I've not been coerced. That's very important. You understand?"

"No, no…" Jory said. "I swore a vow. I said I would escort you to Winterfell…"

"You won't be able to escort me if you're dead," Tiresias cut across him again. "Right now, if I ride off, I stand some chance to get back."

He picked up his belt with his sheathed dagger. "Help me put this on."

Despite his protestations, Jory jumped to action quickly. He latched the belt around Tiresias, muttering to himself as he did so.

"It's not right," he said. "He has no right. It was a trial-by-combat. Sanctioned by the Seven. Preceded over by a lord in his hall. With highborn witnesses. You should face no repercussions for killing Ser Gregor."

He finished latching the belt, having the good sense to place the sheath on Tiresias' right side, for his left hand. Tiresias tested it, drawing the dagger out.

"I've heard many things about Tywin Lannister."

Seen them as well.

He sheathed the dagger again. "I don't believe he has any qualms about undermining the Seven. He has ordered me to be brought to Casterly Rock. The men outside, waiting politely for me, they'll follow that order to the letter. There's nothing that you could do to stop them…"

"Perhaps if we…"

"Jory, listen to me," Tiresias hissed, cutting him off. He gripped the man's shoulder with his good hand. An image of Jory sprung to his mind. His sword locked by Ser Jaime, a knife in his eye…

Focus, man, focus! He breathed and met Jory in the eyes, speaking low.

"You'll gain no honor by dying here. By defying these men. However, there are other tasks that must be carried out. Gendry needs an escort to Winterfell. Those items must be delivered to Lord Stark and there must not be any fuss over a foreign librarian accepting an invitation from the Warden of the West."

Jory inclined his head.

"Jory, we don't have time for this." Tiresias lowered his voice even more, unsuccessfully attempting to contain his rising anxiety. "Swear to me that you'll do this. Please!"

Finally the Winterfell guard raised his head. "Only if you swear that you'll return to Winterfell alive and well."

Tiresias nodded. "I'll do my best. I'll try to satisfy Tywin's curiosity. But that's all I can swear. Will that suffice?"

Jory's nostrils flared, but he nodded jerkily. Tiresias sighed and released the guard's shoulder.

He walked to the end of the bed, where Gendry handed him his packed rucksack.

"I put the vial on top," Gendry muttered. "So you could get at it easy. With one arm."

"Thank you, Gendry," he said. "Be safe and listen to Jory. He'll get you to Winterfell in one piece."

The lad nodded and offered him the fur jacket. Tiresias pushed it back gently.

"Keep it. You'll need it more than me up there."

Tiresias hitched the rucksack over his left shoulder, turning back to Jory.

"After you send the letter, head west. A couple miles after Deep Den, there's a road heading north to Hornvale, and then the Golden Tooth, where you'll meet the Riverroad. Head east to Riverrun. I think you know the way from there, aye?"

Jory nodded. He stuck out his hand and Tiresias shook it.

"Thank you for everything, Jory. Gendry. Hope I see you two soon."

Gendry offered his hand as well and Tiresias shook it, before crossing to the door.

"What about Mal?" asked Jory quietly. "Do you want me to pass on a message?"

Tiresias paused, his hand on the knob. He turned back, thinking.

"Well, I already told Gord to say I'm sorry…so best not repeat that…" He sighed and shrugged. "I still intend to come home. I still want to speak to her. It'll be more than half a year…tell her I'll make it up to her, if she'd let me."

Christ, what a ramble.

Nevertheless, Jory nodded. So Tiresias gave a halfhearted grin and shut the door, walking back to the mandatory escort.

The appearance of Lannister soldiers had spurned the other inhabitants from the inn outside. He exited the inn amid their mutterings to see two singular soldiers on foot, waiting for him. The other red soldiers had reconfigured, their mounts facing the Goldroad. His departure will have an audience.

Captain Artos Lantell saw him exit the inn and nodded to his rear. His spotted horse situated just behind the middle of the group, ready to be mounted. Tiresias forced himself to nod back, hitching his rucksack over his shoulder, before walking forward.

As he stalked from the inn, flanked by the two soldiers, he heard a low mutter from an old man, wishing him luck. His fingers, curled around the rucksack strap on his left shoulder, automatically raised in acknowledgement.

Thanks. I'll damn well need it.

He didn't look back though. He walked in between all the handsome, shining horses and came to his own spotted one. Another soldier was holding her reins and she seemed easy with him. As he came to her side, one of the soldiers squatted and crossed his hands for a step. Tiresias shook his head.

"Thank you, but there's no need." He reached up and gripped the horn, hoping he wouldn't look a fool. Or cause himself considerable pain.

Releasing a breath, he managed to lift his left foot high enough to reach the stirrup. Stepping into it, he lifted himself onto the seat, swinging his right foot over and finding the other stirrup. His horse huffed a little, but he was mounted.

As he was handed his reins, he resisted the urge to glance back at the inn. He hoped Jory and Gendry remained in the room until the hooves have faded away. He hoped this wouldn't be the last they saw of him.

The two remaining Lannister soldiers mounted their horses and Captain Artos turned to the front.

"Forward, men!" His calls echoed in the forest. "Easy canter! Onward."

He gently kicked the sides of his steed and proceeded towards the Goldroad. The horses in front began to move and his mare only followed. He didn't even have to tap her.

Bringing the slackened reins down, he held onto the horn tightly. It wouldn't do to fall and injure himself further. It was only a light canter too. He knew he couldn't handle the true speed of a horse. Not with one good arm. He hoped Captain Artos realized that.

As they descended to the Goldroad and turned west, Tiresias tried to clear his face of any pain from his arm jostling, of any rage at this coercion, of any fear of Lord Tywin's intentions. He didn't wish to give the Old Lion anything to weaponize against him. Not even by proxy through his soldiers.

Still, he was weak. Still broken. Still reliant on Milk of the Poppy for the deep aches. The men around him saw that. He knew they did. He knew as well that they could see the sweat beginning to run down his face.