41 Chapter 41

Tiresias didn't hear from Oberyn. Not for the entire day. Not one Dornishman even approached him. In fact, they didn't even look at him. Tiresias didn't need his heightened sensitivity to detect their disgust with him. They thought him a coward.

So be it, he thought, more annoyed than he expected to be. I killed the Mountain. I don't need to prove anything to you.

Such thoughts gave him pause. He didn't like the ember of pride that glowed in his chest when he remembered that bloody victory. The victory that nearly cost him his arm. His fragile life in the grips of that monster. And he didn't like the pleasure he felt at this defiance against proving himself. Or in contrast, the sliver of shame that soured his heart when he saw their looks of disgust.

Such feelings are the thoughts of a prideful, young boy.

And sure enough, he got a decent idea of what the youth thought of this. Robb, Jon and Theon joined him at his table that evening for dinner. And there was only one topic of conversation they returned to.

"But you're going to fight him, aren't you?" Theon asked, his voice tinged with excitement.

Tiresias took a measured sip of his ale. "The spars are between the soldiers only. Whatever I've done, I'm no soldier. Never have been."

"But everyone expects you to fight!"

"Is that a sight you wish to see, Theon?"

"You're damn right, it is!" He nudged Robb in the shoulder. "Can you imagine the look on the faces of those fucking Sands when Tiresias puts their father in the dirt?"

"Theon, enough," Robb said.

Allowing Robb his authority, Tiresias swallowed his own rebuke…sort of.

"So you'd trade my safety for your own entertainment, Theon?" he asked lightly.

"Safety? What are you talking about? It'll be blunted blades!"

"Can a man not be injured by a blunt object?"

"Why are you hesitating?" Theon asked, confusion entering his eyes. "You took on the Mountain in a fight to the death. Why are you afraid of fighting Prince Oberyn?"

"It's not a matter of fear, Theon Greyjoy." He looked straight into the boy's eyes. "I fought for a man's life. I don't fight to indulge the bloodlust of spectators. Especially those too young to know what calling for a fight actually means."

He tried to keep rebuke out of his response, but it was futile. Theon looked chastened, but not in a way that showed he understood. Tiresias tried to return to his food, but his appetite was diminishing. He placed his spoon down, trying to think. After checking to see that no Dornish soldier was within earshot, he asked the question.

"Do you all know what happened to Princess Elia Martell? Prince Oberyn's sister?"

Even Theon turned serious at the mention of the late princess. Jon lowered his spoon as well, his chewing slowed considerably. Robb, ever the future Lord, spoke up, albeit solemnly.

"She was butchered. Along with her children, Rhaenys and Aegon. When the Lannisters sacked King's Landing."

Tiresias continued to hold eye contact with him until Rob felt compelled to elaborate. In a lowered tone.

"The Mountain killed them. And…and raped the Princess. Killed her after."

Were the details necessary? Tiresias didn't know, but it vanquished any levity that was present earlier. Theon was quite silent now. Even Jon, who also seemed curious to see the match, was staring down.

"Prince Oberyn's want for vengeance is quite justified," Tiresias said quietly. "As far as it can be…but it's not a want that can be easily satisfied. And not permanently. I may have involved myself forever in his quest for vengeance when I killed Clegane. But if I indulge him and spar with him…it won't be enough. Not for long. That kind of appetite can never be fulfilled."

The faces of all three of them turned into a blur. He tried to continue but he was tongue-tied. Sighing through his nose, he picked up his spoon, placing stew into his mouth, without really registering it. Was he satisfied with that explanation?

If you're asking that question…probably not, mate.

"No appetite is ever quelled permanently," Robb said. He looked up to see the young lord staring him down. "It's just satisfied so we can move on. The Dornish won't move on without Prince Oberyn. And he won't move on until he gets something to quell his appetite. Even it's only temporary."

Tiresias couldn't deny that. "Aye. Aye, he won't."

Lord Stark stood by his decision not to fight. Robb wouldn't go against that. But his eyes spoke the truth that he couldn't voice. That his decision not to fight might have long reaching consequences for Winterfell. Ones that they couldn't afford with the dangers approaching, though Robb wasn't aware of them yet.

Well...using that reasoning, Lord Robb, my decision to fight might have long reaching consequences as well.

He sucked a bit of bone and spat it out. If only he were a decent prophet, he could decide which consequences he would rather endure. He and the ones he cared for.

The scratching of his quill on the parchment seemed to echo more loudly today. It seemed to overtake even the lecture from Maester Luwin in his mind. He sensed eyes from the young ones this day. They all knew what was occurring this afternoon. He heard every one of them, with the exception of Cara, turn around in their chair and glance at him. Even Maester Luwin's eyes flitted over him a few times.

He kept this eyes down, trying to focus on his work. However, even between the lessons and the quill in his hand, he couldn't help his ear from drifting to the window. There he swore he could hear the sounds of those in the yard preparing for the amateur tourney.

Tiresias tried to dismiss it, but it was in vain. The faint echoes of an awaiting challenge plagued him, and before the expectant dispositions of the Stark youth and ward, the morning passed very slowly.

But it eventually did pass. The lecture ended and the young ones departed for the midday meal. For the training yard afterwards went unsaid. At least for Robb, Theon, and Jon. They wished him farewell and he returned it curtly, eyes still down. He would not be moved.

After they left, he heard the clink of Luwin's chains as he walked over. Tiresias handed over a parchment of measurements.

"Only four of the tomes I brought over are in need of rebinding. When you give that to the tanner, he should be able to cut the leather I need."

Maester Luwin nodded. "I'll let him know." He pocketed the measurements, his beady knowing gaze still on him.

Tiresias put down his quill. "Are you attending the spars?"

The maester nodded. "I don't expect soldiers from either side to emerge uninjured from this. Even a normal day of training requires a few moments of my time."

At Tiresias' glance, Maester Luwin sighed. "However, this is not a normal day. And I'm afraid that such a contest between the two most stubborn kingdoms in Westeros will provoke…deep enthusiasm from both sides."

"Enthusiasm…" Tiresias muttered, rolling the word over his tongue. It tasted foreign to him. He certainly wasn't enthusiastic for this day. In fact, he was anxious for it to be over.

That's what he thought at least…

He woke up this morning with a strange ache in the pit of his stomach. It didn't hurt. But it reminded him of when Clark was a boy, waiting for an injection. An anticipation of something unpleasant but inevitable.

Glancing up, he saw Maester Luwin was still peering at him. As if the old man could sense his coming question.

Tiresias swallowed. "Maester," he began. "What will happen if I don't answer the Prince's challenge? I have Lord Stark's support. We're in Winterfell. I'm only the librarian. Am I doing anything wrong?"

Luwin shrugged. "Nothing should happen. That's the course of such events. You have no business in that training yard, Tiresias. And Prince Oberyn has no right to force you to fight. That would be the end of it. If those present agreed to the formalities."

There was no relief in the maester's words. They were spoke with such decorum. A shadow of a smile shadowed his face as he continued.

"You also had no business in Deep Den when you duelled Ser Gregor."

It wasn't a condemnation, but Tiresias lowered his eyes all the same. The message was clear enough. When he emerged from the background in the Westerlands, he forfeited all claims to normalcy in this world. Still…

"Prince Oberyn has no business lowering himself to fight me."

"No, he doesn't," Luwin remarked lightly. He walked over to his own table and rolled up a map of the Stormlands.

"But as we so often see, formalities carry only as much as weight as we allow them," he called back to Tiresias. "Temperaments color our actions far more than we'd like them to. And Prince Oberyn is a very temperamental man."

Tiresias didn't have a response to that. Maester Luwin cleaned up his desk and departed the library, wishing him a farewell as his clinks faded into the corridor. He sat in the silence, trying to savor it. But without the lecture and the presence of the Stark youth, the sounds from the training yard became more prominent. He didn't imagine them earlier and even as echoes, he could sense the excitement behind them.

As the midday hour came to an end, he had abandoned the idea of eating. It didn't irk him. He had skipped meals before and the idea of sharing space with anyone right now soured his appetite. As the afternoon began, the cheers began anew, flaring up every few minutes. The spars had begun.

Still his stomach rumbled. As the afternoon wore on, he tried to ignore it, remembering the days when he had skipped meals and survived just fine. Still it was uncomfortable and as the third hour of the afternoon began, he found himself wondering if he could sneak down and grab some dried beef while all the ruckus was happening.

As he wondered this, the library door opened and his nose caught a familiar scent. He turned to see Mal crossing the room with a tray. She approached his table wordlessly and set the tray down.

Tiresias glanced at the food. "Did Mistress Bane send you back to work in the kitchens?"

She snorted lightly and sat. "It's my meal as well. Since you're hiding out for today, I figured I'd have it with you."

That remark blew directly onto the ember of pride that was lodged squarely in his chest. A great desire to defend himself rose up inside.

And quickly died when he reminded himself who had said it. Mal picked up a pitcher and poured out water into cups while he broke up the bread.

"How goes the tourney?"

She rolled her eyes. "Not much of one. Just some fools swinging blunted steel at each other. One on one. Bunch of coins. Bunch of men getting filthy in the muck. The laundry that the girls will be stuck with…"

That part annoyed her more than anything else, but she breathed and moved on.

"And it doesn't seem to be dying down. One Northman enters when another Northman falls. Another Dornishman enters when one of them falls."

"The crowd should dwindle soon if that keeps up."

He looked up and met her brown eyes. She was looking directly at him.

"No, they won't. Prince Oberyn still hasn't fought."

The bread seemed stuck in his mouth. He fought it loose with his tongue and swallowed.

Mal tore off a piece. "He merely sits and cheers, but he keeps looking up and away at this tower."

She didn't say anything more on the subject. Which was fine by Tiresias. The rest of their lunch passed quickly, with him glancing to the window. Maybe it wasn't just the echoes of the cheers that had distracted him so in the last few hours. Maybe the stare of Prince Oberyn was wearing him down. Penetrating right through the stone walls from the grounds of the training yard.

Soon after the tray was empty, Mal stood to leave. He thanked her for bringing lunch, to which she shrugged.

"No great trick to carrying a tray." She turned to the library exit, paused after only a few steps before turning back. Tiresias met her brown eyes. The steel tempered her worry as she spoke.

"Whatever you do…do it carefully. All right?"

He nodded, but stayed quiet. She didn't like it when he offered empty assurances.

Another hour passed when Mal left and he had nothing significance to show for it. It irked him. His stomach was full and he could concentrate now…at least he attempted to. The parchment before him…he couldn't put his quill to it. His hand hovered above the inkwell, his ink dripping steadily as he tried to focus.

He resisted the urge to curse himself. After all, who could concentrate when one is ignoring a blatant challenge from a Dornishman?

Tiresias tried a few more times to get back on track, but the work simply would not be done. Finally he shut the inkwell and laid down his quill. Sitting back, he gazed upon the shelves, his eyes browsing a possible distraction. That meal was substantial enough to get him past dinner. He could light a candle and read for hours. Continued to ignore the echoes from the training yard…

He had no idea how long he sat there staring blankly into the shelves when a pair of light boots entered the library. Turning, he saw Jon Snow by the door. He looked rather contrite.

A few seconds passed before he realized he neglected to greet the lad. Or he him. It just didn't seem necessary. The look in the boy's eyes told him what he needed to know. His glance from him to the window, then back to him.

Several cheers echoed from the training yard. Over the afternoon, they had not diminished in volume.

Tiresias bowed his head and sighed, staring at his hands. They were slightly stained. His skills with a quill were far ahead of what they were when he first arrived in Winterfell. Yet he couldn't prevent all ink from spilling onto his fingers.

Better ink than blood, he mused. Although his skills with a blade were also miles ahead of what they once were.

He blinked to find himself standing, the scrape of his chair against the stone floor echoing in the library. Pushing the chair in, he walked calmly to the door, where Jon still waited politely. There was no surprise on his face. No excitement either.

Which relieved him somewhat. Delighting in violence was juvenile.

Is participating in it that much better? Pointed assassinations. That's one thing. Training spars are another. But a duel for a royal's curiosity? What the fuck are you doing? What will this gain? How will this help?

Questions he probably should have answered weeks ago flooded him as he walked down the tower, Jon at his side. He didn't know how he wanted to play Dorne. He honestly didn't expect to deal with them until much later. Were they in league with Illyrio Mopatis? How were they seeking revenge against Tywin Lannister? Would they still support Daenerys Targaryen when she came to power in the east?

He didn't know, but he did know that Robb was right. Prince Oberyn wouldn't leave until he had the answers he craved. Whether or not those answers came from an explicit recounting or a demonstration…that was his choice now. And to his knowledge, he never felt that pressure on his throat while training. When he was fighting. It was in the quiet moments when he felt the Mountain's hand back on his throat…

Not that it was an easy choice. Indulging Oberyn Martell in a spar, a spectacle for himself and his people…it wasn't wise in most areas. But blatantly ignoring the Red Viper, a Prince of Dorne, because he simply didn't feel like fighting…that was another risk entirely.

However he justified it, he tried to suppress it from his mind. He made his choice and now he had to concentrate. Unlike Deep Den, he wasn't entering a duel with a whole day of stretching and preparation behind him.

Well, this isn't a battle to the death…I hope.

Still, Deep Den was also the end of a long road with months in the wilderness, time in the capital and continuous travel with little to no reprieve. And no training. He was certainly on more stable ground here. And it would be good practice in another way. As he realized before, with his duel with Otis, not every opponent would wait until he was comfortably ready to duel.

He threw his arms across his chest as he walked, trying to get the blood loose. They had reached the first floor of the castle.

"Who sent you to get me?"

"Robb," Jon responded. "Prince Oberyn has been there for hours. Ever since it started. Hasn't fought yet. But each man of his keeps coming forth. It just keeps going."

"What about your father?"

Jon shook his head. "Father oversaw a few matches in the morning and left. Might be there now…but he won't summon you."

"Did Prince Oberyn ask him to?"

"They exchanged some looks. Prince Oberyn keeps smiling and looking to the tower. But Father told us…he said he wouldn't force you."

"And Robb?"

They came to the western courtyard. Echoes from the training yard were louder than ever. Tiresias felt eyes snap to them as they made for it.

Jon shrugged. "He thinks it's the only way they'll stop."

"He may be right, unfortunately," Tiresias muttered. He clapped Jon on the shoulder. "You should go ahead of me. No sense getting into trouble with your father."

Nodding, Jon made to walk before turning back. "Do you need anything?"

Tiresias exhaled, continuing to make for the yard. "Fetch a pole staff for me, will you? Actually…why don't you grab two..."

He heard the boy's footsteps disappear into the crowd as he approached the yard. It seemed a large throng was crowded around the entire area, with the center free. Thankfully a match was in progress and his presence attracted little attention as he squeezed through to the middle of the spectators.

It appeared that he arrived at an opportune time. He didn't recognize the current Dornishman fighting by name, but he knew the name of his Northern opponent well enough. Tadd was putting up a good front. The man survived the Greyjoy Rebellion for a reason and he attacked the Dornishman vigorously, causing the man to retreat in a circle.

Helps that he's sober, I suppose…

The mere fact that he was winning spurred cheers from the Northerners and jeers from the Dornish, but all-in-all it seemed amiable. His eyes scanned the crowd and found Oberyn easily. He sat on a crate, his daughters by his side. Obara sported a cut on her cheek and Nymeria had a bandaged hand. Ellaria sat behind Oberyn, curled against his back, in the heaviest fur he'd seen yet.

The Prince had a keen ear. He remembered that from his conversation with Varys, but he didn't know about any other senses. Whether because of a message relayed or some other reason, Oberyn stopped watching the match and turned his eyes to the crowd, scanning it. It took only a few seconds for him to lock eyes with Tiresias.

They regarded each other across the cheering soldiers. A smile came onto the Prince's face and he turned back to the match. Tiresias did the same without the smile, coming to the front and dropping to the ground, trying to get in some stretches before it was too late.

Having never before been grateful to Tadd, he found himself thanking the git as he refused to lose the match quickly. The Dornishman was beginning to assert his victory and it was only a matter of time but that meant little to Tadd. He was too stubborn. So Tiresias found himself stretching to his content.

Squatting down, he heard a familiar set of steps, heavily thumping against the earth. They cut through the cheering crowd, headed towards him.

"Tiresias?"

He looked up to see Gord standing over him.

"Hello Gord." He came back up to his feet and stretched his shoulders. Tadd would lose in the next few moves.

"You being here…" his big friend asked. "Does it mean what I think it does?"

"I believe so," Tiresias sighed as his joints popped. Relief coursed through him as he stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, stretching his ankles.

He turned to Gord. "Have you fought yet?"

Gord nodded. "Aye. These Dornish are slippery little bastards. Managed to win against two. Earned me a reprieve."

"Well done," Tiresias muttered, returning his eyes to the center. Only a little longer. The Dornishman was drawing back, but he saw the man preparing for the counter. Tadd would hurtle right into his lure.

Not needing to see anymore, he scanned the crowd. Robb and Theon stood with Ser Rodrik, who was watching with the strictest look upon his face. His nephew stood with him. Jory observed the fight strictly as well, but he seemed more relaxed about the whole affair. Above them, a shadow caught his eye. He looked to the covered balcony, where Arya stood behind a column, poorly shielded from the ground, but she didn't seem to care.

All of the adolescents watched the final moments of this match with such attention. All except one.

Away from them, he came to Jon Snow, who was walking along the front rows of the soldiers, quickly as to not disrupt their view. Headed towards him with two pole staffs.

A loud cheer erupted from the other side, as well as groans from around them. He rolled his shoulders as he looked back to the center where Tadd laid in the dirt, breathing hard with a blunted spear at his throat.

To Tadd's credit, the Dornishman panted as well. And quickly raised his spear as Tadd spat out his surrender. He didn't offer a hand up though. Maybe he sensed Tadd's nature. In any case, the Northman got to his feet on his own terms, grabbed his training sword and limped off the field.

The applause from the Dornish simmered down, with Prince Oberyn being the last to stop and when he did, his eyes were back on the librarian.

Jon came to his side with the polestaffs. As he drew near, other eyes followed the boy, coming to him. Soon, the ring of spectators was quiet.

Tiresias inhaled and released.

Relax…it's not your life on the line this time…I hope.

Eyeing the open pitch before him, he knelt and begin to unbuckle his boots.

"No steel had been dropped and left on the ground during all this fun today, aye?" he asked Gord.

"Not that I can recall."

"Fair enough." Tiresias stepped out of his boots, feeling the bare earth beneath his feet. Pressing them neatly together, he stood up and unbuckled his belt, sliding the sheath off. He handed it to Gord, who received the dagger wordlessly, before returning the belt to his waist.

It was quite something to change for a spar in front of hundreds of soldiers. With only murmurs filling the air. He heard little of coins though. No wagers taken. Not yet.

He briefly met the eye of the Dornish spearman who downed Tadd, before bending down and rolling up his trousers. The man seemed to have caught his breath and was regarding him calmly. He still stood in the center.

Tying off the legs, he stood and, without further ceremony, removed his shirt. It was a cool, late summer afternoon. The sun would set soon, but the evening chill was beginning to settle in. It graced his skin gently and he welcomed it, willing himself to breathe slowly. It eased his racing heart.

Reaching for the sky with one last stretch, he brought his arms down and gestured for the polestaffs. Jon handed them over without a word.

"Thank you, Jon." He willed himself to sound unworried. "Now, go on back to your brother and Ser Rodrik."

Jon nodded and jogged off. Tiresias followed the lad briefly before looking past him to below the balcony, where the other youth of House Stark waited, the expressions on their faces varying between anticipation and apprehension.

He ignored that and met the eyes of Ser Rodrik. The knight's mouth had thinned considerably, but he nodded curtly.

And so I have the blessings of the Winterfell Master of Arms. Fucking lovely…

Tiresias walked forward with a soft focus, the crowd becoming a haze. As he came to the center and halted, he met the eyes of the Dornishman who had remained in the ring. He held the polestaffs lightly and pointed to the ground. Flexing his toes, he felt the cool dirt curl up between them. It soothed him.

But his heart still raced. It beat quickly as the Dornishman nodded and turned sideface, bringing his spear to a starting position.

"You're not my opponent," Tiresias said. "Please leave the ring."

The Dornishman blinked. "What did you just say to me?"

He breathed, determined to keep his voice soft. "I said you're not my opponent. Please leave the ring."

None of the other spectators could have heard him. All that they saw was a Dornishman's anger rising as he tried to process what he just heard.

His voice returned quickly. "I am here! With this!" He brandished the spear and stuck it forward. Tiresias didn't wince. There was no danger in that thrust. The Dornishman's grip on the handle was too tight.

Not that didn't stop the crowd from jumping slightly. A few protests from the Northern side melded with jeers from the Dornish side. The man brought his spear back.

"I am your opponent!" he hissed under the murmurs surrounding them.

Tiresias shook his head. "I came down to answer a challenge. You're not the one who challenged me. So please leave."

"Selidor!" Oberyn called from the side. Tearing his eyes from the irate spearman, Tiresias looked to the Red Viper, who had already removed one boot and was unbuckling the other. He put his bare feet on the ground and stood up, untying his fur cloak.

"This one is mine, Selidor." He never lost his smile. "Leave the ring."

The Dornish spearman named Selidor instantly lowered his weapon and bowed, before exiting into the crowd, where the sounds of coins passing hands now played softly along the wind. Wagers against the Red Viper. Wagers against the Warrior-Librarian. Tiresias didn't focus on the whispers. Didn't hear the odds. He wasn't tempted to. Not in the slightest.

His eyes stayed on Oberyn. The man deposited his fur cloak into the arms of a waiting steward. As he unbuckled his own belt, he met Tiresias' eyes and smirked. Wrapping the belt around his own dagger, he raised the belt to the sky before giving it to the steward, placing it on top of the cloak.

The cold bothered the Prince. Not that he gave that away, but Tiresias could tell. His arms tensed. The smirk and nonchalant gaze became only more fixed. At a minuscule level.

You'll lose that smirk soon, Oberyn...

Tiresias blinked freely. This contest wouldn't be won with dry eyes.

But not due to me. With this cold and the anger you keep simmering below you…and not a Mountain in sight to direct it towards…

Oberyn removed his shirt and he saw the Viper's breath hitch slightly. But his composure was unshaken and the smirk stayed.

I suppose I'm the next best thing. You'll see if you could have beaten him. That's what I have to give you...

The steward received the Prince's silk with a blank acceptance. Nymeria came to her father and they spoke. Tiresias gave them their privacy and his eyes wandered to Obara, who fixed him with her best glare. He gave her a nod. It wasn't returned.

Resisting to the urge to chuckle, he looked back to Oberyn, who patted Nymeria lightly on the cheek. A weapons master came to his side, offering his spear. The Viper declined and turned, walking out. His feet hit the earth in an easy stride.

Tiresias exhaled. He'll be fast. Much faster than Clegane. If the bare feet don't slow him down.

Their dueling area would be more contained than the hall in Deep Den. There Lord Lydden made room for a halfgiant and his longsword. Not the case here. Tiresias blinked and Oberyn was at his spot, his eyes waiting, his arms relaxed at his side.

He breathed easily in the cold. At least for now.

Tiresias lifted a polestaff and threw it to the Prince. Softly though. No need for machismo at this point. Oberyn caught it easily and instantly went into twirling it, twisting and spinning the staff until it was just a blur in his hands. Applause and cheers grew from the Dornish side, climaxing into yells when their Prince ended his demonstration with the staff atop his shoulders. He faced his men, the smile wide on his face.

While Oberyn saluted his men, Tiresias knelt and rubbed dirt on his palms, leaning his staff against his shoulder. No sense in waiting until he was slick with sweat.

As he stood, he found Oberyn facing him again. The smirk was still there, but the nonchalance in his eyes was gone. There were the eyes of a man who had traveled far for a reason. The eyes of a man who had something precious stolen from him.

Has anyone ever died being battered by a polestaff? Tiresias wondered vaguely. He supposed it was quite possible.

Before he could help it, his mouth twitched into a small smile and he was too late to wipe it from his face. The Red Viper saw it.

"You are as they say you were...when you were in the Westerlands, dueling Clegane," he called out. "Naked. No sword. Will you take some of the dirt and smear it on your face as well? Make again the scene from Deep Den truly? Isn't that how you fight?"

"This is no fight to the death, Prince Oberyn," Tiresias said. His voice was soft, but he knew the Viper heard him. It didn't matter that the spectators didn't. "I hope you didn't enter this ring thinking it was."

That made Oberyn laugh, but only slightly. Passing over the question, he began to walk in a circle, spinning his staff as he did so. Tiresias started to circle as well, stepping sideways, keeping the Red Viper at a safe distance, his staff now up.

The Prince paused his spinning, pointing his staff to Tiresias' chest.

"He gave you that beautiful scar, no? The Mountain? A half-inch deeper and you would have been dead. You had no shield?"

Tiresias didn't respond. Just continued to circle.

"I would have done the same, you know," Oberyn remarked. "No shield. Light armor. Just a spear against that creature. Quite useful against tall shitpiles and their reach, no?"

There were two kinds of fighters in the world. Those who liked to talk and those who refrained from doing so. Tiresias wasn't a good enough talker or fighter to do both at once. He stayed mum as he circled the Red Viper, his eyes catching the Prince's feet planting.

"Nothing to say?" Oberyn asked. The smirk never left his face as he stopped circling and made for the center. "That's fine. Let your staff speak instead."

Jon made it back to Robb and Theon just in time to turn and see Tiresias walk out to the center of the ring.

"You found him in the library then?" Theon asked, his eyes glancing to him before going out to the fighters.

"Aye, that's where he works, isn't it?" Jon responded. Robb moved to give him his old spot back.

Shouts reached them from the ring. The Dornish spearman brandished his weapon at Tiresias who stood quite still, the two polestaffs lowered at his waist. The angry protests from the Dornishman could be understood from the distance.

"Is he refusing to fight the spearman?" Robb asked, by his ear. "Is he just going straight for Prince Oberyn?"

"Looks so," Jon said, turning his eye to the Dornish side, where the Prince lounged. Prince Oberyn seemed to be of the same mind, kneeling down to remove his boot. He didn't look to the center where the spearman's protest grew louder. He wasn't worried. He saw how the spearman moved earlier. Tiresias was faster.

The Prince though…he didn't know. Prince Oberyn only wandered through the training yard once before as he observed his daughters. His laughter sailed through the air as Obara pitched Theon to the dirt. But he didn't fight.

He would soon though. Prince Oberyn called for his man's withdrawal from the ring and it was quickly obeyed. After removing his other boot, cloak, shirt and dagger, the Red Viper walked forward. If he was bothered by the freezing mud, he didn't show it.

Ser Rodrik scoffed. "I swear, by the gods…those idiots will lose their toes if they're not quick about this. All for a bloody spar."

Jon shared a glance with Robb before looking back out. Tiresias' comfort with the cold was not a new topic of discussion among them. Difficult as it was to think and comb his memory now with the impending spar, he found no memory where he was training with Tiresias when the man wore anything over his shirt. Even in the bitterest cold he could remember, even at the beginning of training before the blood ran hot, the Essosi simply took to the cold.

Even Arya noticed it when she was six. Asked him if their librarian was part ice. He joked he was part wolf.

It wasn't even that cold today. But evening was coming soon and not even the strongest Northman went without a shirt in the summer dark.

But Prince Oberyn seemed comfortable enough as he came face to face with Tiresias. He caught his polestaff easily and stepped lightly, twirling his polestaff faster and faster, sending his men into a cheering frenzy. Beneath that, he heard Ser Rodrik scoff.

"Damn show-off," he muttered.

"He's still fast, Uncle," Jory said, his voice lowered as well, as if the cheering Dornish soldiers could hear them. "No armor to hold him down either. And based on his step…"

"Aye," Ser Rodrik interjected, before turning to them. "Based on his step, what? Robb? Theon? Jon?"

"He'll lead with his left," Robb answered immediately. "He also likes to move around."

The Prince stopped his twirling, facing his cheering men. As he gestured to them, Jon turned back to Tiresias, who was kneeling and rubbing his hands with dirt.

"Tiresias likes to move around as well," he said quietly, though he knew the rest heard him. Their librarian was the quickest warrior in Winterfell. He was curious, and scared, to see if the arrival of this Dornish Prince changed that.

As Tiresias stood, Prince Oberyn spoke, half to him and half to the crowd. The wind obfuscated his words and from here, they could only hear his confidence. His swagger. As for Tiresias, his responses were soft and didn't reach their ears at all.

Theon cursed, ignoring a sharp look from Ser Rodrik as he turned to them.

"Can you lot actually hear what he's saying?"

Robb shook his head.

"No," said Jon, his eyes on the ring. But he had a good idea. All the spars with the librarian, ever since he was a boy, led him to know what kind of a warrior he was.

A reluctant one. Like my father.

He was impressed by the Prince already. Not only by his handling of the polestaff, but Prince Oberyn didn't seem bothered by the cold so far as he began to circle Tiresias. The librarian mirrored his steps, though far less casually than the Prince. He kept his distance.

It didn't last long. The Prince seemed to grow weary of his opponent's silence and made for the center, tilting his staff up. Jon exhaled, forgetting that he was holding his breath. Prince Oberyn advanced casually, but something wasn't right…

Just now wasn't the first time Ser Rodrik told them to look to a man's feet to predict his movements. Especially during a pause in the fight. Jon's eyes wandered to the Red Viper's gait. He was kind enough to have removed his boots for a better view. His eyes weren't as good as Tiresias', but he saw the tension build as he proceeded to the center.

Robb predicted it correctly. He sprung from his left foot.

Cheers erupted from the sides as Prince Oberyn swung his staff, raising it quickly as he rushed in his final steps to the center. Jon blinked. The staff turned into a blur when the Red Viper struck but Tiresias blocked it, letting the Prince have a little give before pushing it away.

That didn't deter the Dornish Prince. In place, he brought the staff around and struck repeatedly. Tiresias met the next two blows, moving his staff quickly and precisely to block. Not allowing himself to become entangled or his arms crossed, he met the fourth blow and pushed it off, circling rapidly and creating distance against the Viper.

"Ser Rodrik."

With a great effort, Jon tore away from the cheers and looked behind him. Through a parting of enthused Northerners, Father came up to them, standing next to Ser Rodrik. The knight, along with Jory, gave a short bow, looking away from the duel with as much difficulty.

"Lord Stark," Ser Rodrik responded shortly.

His Lord Father turned to the ring. Jon thought he saw anger in his eyes and hoped Robb wouldn't be punished for suggesting that Tiresias be implored to show up. He hoped he wouldn't face punishment for bringing him down. His feet felt quite heavy as he trudged to the library tower.

However, Father merely looked resigned as he gazed out onto the ring. "How long have they been at it?"

All of their eyes snapped back to the duel with their Lord's blessing. They heard the staffs coming together in another series of hits, but it was the same result. Tiresias was circling around Prince Oberyn, who seemed less amused.

"Just for a minute, my Lord," Ser Rodrik said. "No hits landed as of yet."

He swore he heard Father blink. "Why aren't they wearing practice armor…or boots?"

Ser Rodrik hesitated before answering. "I'm afraid I don't know, my Lord."

"Tiresias doesn't mind the cold," Jon heard himself answering. He didn't turn back, but he felt the eyes flicker to him. "The Dornish do. Prince Oberyn challenged him, but he entered on his own terms and the Prince had to follow them…or else look weak."

He came back to see Tiresias crouching as Prince Oberyn thrusted. His eyes recognized the lure before his mind registered it…

Cheers renewed among the Northmen as Tiresias, after parrying the thrust, quickly brought his staff down to Prince Oberyn's wrist, striking it. If Jon blinked, he would have missed it.

Tiresias didn't press as the Prince staggered back, shaking his wrist. But he didn't cry out. And he didn't look angry. That smirk, which disappeared briefly as he was hit, came back bigger than before.

"He should have pressed," Jory muttered. "He won't get that opportunity again."

The crowd seemed to think the same. The cheers from the hit morphed into disappointed murmurs as Tiresias let Prince Oberyn regained his composure. Evidently, the Prince himself felt similar.

"Come now, Tiresias!" the Prince called. "I am no southern flower…and I cannot imagine you defeated the Mountain with such kindness."

Laughter came from the crowd. Tiresias didn't respond to it. His staff remained high and he turned with the Red Viper as he paced around him.

"Good stance," he said. "Fair blocks…were you able to stop Clegane's sword in midair? Did it halt under your magnificent strength?"

"What the hell is he doing?" Robb hissed. "Stop egging him on and just fight. No need for this."

"Tiresias will face such taunts for the rest of his life," Father responded quietly. "He'll learn to suffer them."

The librarian stayed silent, not saying a word as he began to walk forward, his staff raised. The Prince stopped pacing and went to meet him as the jeers from the Dornish grew louder and louder.

"Come on, Tiresias," Jory said. "Come on, shut them the hell up…Sorry, Uncle."

"Bah," said Ser Rodrik, dismissing the apology. "I'd settle for quiet too about now."

But the jeering only increased as Prince Oberyn brought his staff and swung. Jon watched Tiresias' own staff, waiting for its counter…instead he saw it fall to the mud.

He blinked and brought his eyes back in time to see Tiresias lean back, evading the staff as it swung over him.

"What the fuck?!" Theon exclaimed.

There was no time or desire from Lord Stark to admonish his ward about his profanity. The young Greyjoy and he weren't the only ones surprised. Prince Oberyn, clearly expecting to meet resistance, halted his swing before he swung off balance, jerking his body back to center. Just when Tiresias came up.

"He did that move against the Mountain," Jory offered. "First swing of the greatsword swept right over him. Didn't drop the spear though…"

Honor demanded that a spar be paused when an opponent drops their weapon. However, Jon saw the look in Tiresias' eyes and he knew the Prince did as well. His eyes just screamed for a challenge.

So Prince Oberyn swung again. And thrusted. Swinging his staff repeatedly in the direction of Tiresias, who dodged each one of the Red Viper's strikes, leaving his own staff in the mud. He stepped back as the Dornish Prince moved forward. They merely danced. And as they danced and Prince Oberyn swung faster and faster, the cheers from the Northmen increased. Theon, Robb and Jory joined them and Jon even heard Arya from her hiding spot on the balcony, her yells of encouragement lost.

But he didn't say a word. Ser Rodrik and his Lord Father watched the spar in silence and he followed their lead. And Tiresias was too busy to speak as well. To answer the cheers. The librarian was beginning to get tired though only a minute had passed; his breaths measured and practiced were turning into pants. He needed to get his staff back. He couldn't keep dodging for long…

Prince Oberyn twirled and swung the polestaff to Tiresias' right side. Jon watched the man to see him roll forward, leaving the polestaff to swing over him, missing him…

Jon couldn't remember any other time that Tiresias yelled in pain. An aching snarl emitted from the librarian and Jon blinked to see that the librarian, instead of bending and rolling away from the staff, had braced his legs and turned to meet it.

The polestaff struck his presented back, but it didn't bounce back. Tiresias had thrown his arms back as the staff came and trapped it. The Prince still held the staff, staring at his opponent.

Jon's eyes went to Tiresias' legs without thinking about it.

Staring for a split second too long. He should have released it by now.

But the Red Viper hesitated, exposing his front to a hard kick as Tiresias sprang his left leg up. Prince Oberyn doubled over to the outraged yells from the Dornish soldiers, releasing the polestaff at last. But it didn't matter. Tiresias dropped it as well, planting his left leg in the mud and crossing over with a right strike.

There was no way to hear the connection over the yells of the soldiers. It did look painful though. For both parties. Prince Oberyn staggered away, holding his face. Tiresias didn't pursue him, breathing heavily, wincing as he held his right side and shook his hand out. They quickly looked to each other, but stayed put, trying to catch their breaths.

"Is there a penalty for a lowborn striking Dornish royalty?" Ser Rodrik muttered sideways to Father. Worry crept into the old knight's voice as he surveyed the crowd. "Those lot seem to be calling for it."

But as Ser Rodrik spoke, Prince Oberyn took his hand away from his face. A small stream of blood trickled down the man's cheek, curving around a growing smile. As the Red Viper smiled, the outrage from the Dornish lessened and their cheers grew.

Father spoke calmly. "Prince Oberyn seems to have accepted the rules of sparring here. I don't imagine he'll hold any grudge against our librarian for landing a good hit. Besides he continued to attack when Tiresias had no weapon."

Indeed, there was no anger in the Prince's smile as he fixed his sights on the librarian. He took several breaths, rubbing his chest.

Father sighed. "I just hope they end this quickly."

Tiresias appeared to be of the same mind. He picked up Prince Oberyn's polestaff and walked over to where he had dropped his own. Walking with his back turned, he appeared relaxed while the Prince stood and watched carefully, never losing his smile.

Placing his foot under it, Tiresias kicked up and caught the polestaff in his free hand. Turning back, he again tossed the polestaff to his opponent. Prince Oberyn caught the staff easily, allowing himself one spin before settling.

"Are you not wanting to continue this spar with our fists, Warrior-Librarian?"

Tiresias answered his question quietly, bring the polestaff up in a defensive position and pivoting sideface. However, this time he had changed sides, putting his right back away from the Prince. Where he was struck.

How hurt was he? No blood ran, but a bruise had yet to form.

Prince Oberyn gave a short laugh. "I don't blame you. Your hands are quick, just as you are…but your fists are feathers."

Dornish soldiers joined in the laughter. The Northerners yelled back, a mixture of jeers towards the foreigners and encouragement toward the librarian.

Tiresias remained silent in the face of the jeering. He continued only to stare at Prince Oberyn as he began to circle again, nearing his opponent as he did. The Red Viper stayed put, pivoting slowly with the librarian. Jon looked to the Prince's feet. They were beginning to turn blue.

The cold was beginning to get to their royal guest. As Prince Oberyn turned with Tiresias, he presented them with a full view of it. His arms were beginning to shiver. His smirk was gone and his jaw was set. His breaths were brisk.

Jon saw none of that in Tiresias. Sure he was panting as well, but that was due to weariness rather than the cold. He still stepped easy in the freezing mud as he circled nearer and nearer…

It was a quick strike from Tiresias that revitalized the fight. Oberyn blocked it and countered. This time, the librarian did not move back. Did not create distance. They stayed together, bringing their staffs high and low. The cracks between their weapons like a drumbeat. And they did not retreat…

"Now they're fighting stupidly," Ser Rodrik remarked. He sounded disappointed. "Fighting to end it. Won't be long now before…"

And no sooner did Ser Rodrik uttered those words did they hear a grimaced snarl from the ring. Jon whirled his eyes back to see the Prince had struck Tiresias across the thigh, sending the librarian to his knee. Tiresias lifted his staff to block the following hit from the other side and that was the last move he made.

Prince Oberyn's hand left the staff. He balled his fist and stuck the librarian across the face. Tiresias fell to the ground, jerking his head up in time to see a polestaff pointed to his face. Groans and cheers echoed in the yard. Theon swore and he was joined by Jory. Also by Arya, if he heard correctly.

But the Red Viper stayed still, poised until Tiresias nodded and gave the yield they couldn't hear from that distance. The polestaff came immediately and the Prince tossed it aside. Tiresias pushed himself up from the ground, holding his cheek as he sat up.

There seemed to be no hard feelings. After a salute to his men, Prince Oberyn offered Tiresias a hand and pulled him up. Jon couldn't tell who offered first, but they shook hands briefly, still panting as they did so.

Jon looked back to his father and he wasn't the only one. Ser Rodrik met Lord Stark's eyes as well. After his father gave a nod, Ser Rodrik stepped forward, his voice echoing across the yard.

"All right, that's enough! You all had your fun! Now I want this yard put right, with all weaponry stored and every piece of equipment in its proper place for tomorrow!"

Jory walked into the foray, grabbing some volunteers nearby. "Come on, lads. Let's get the pommels back here…"

Jon stepped forward as well, heading toward Tiresias, making his way through a sea of grumbling Northern soldiers. He heard Theon and Robb behind him as well. They reached the librarian as he was accepting his clothes back from Gord, the big soldier he was most friendly with.

He was strapping his belt back on as they approached, a bruise already beginning to form on his cheek. They stopped before him.

"Evening, gentlemen," he said, adjusting the sheath. He winced as he turned back around.

"What was that?" Theon said with no preamble. "You beat the Mountain. How could you lose to him?"

Tiresias shrugged, looking toward to the Prince, who had already wrapped himself back in his fur cloak. His smirk was back, but he was still freezing. The librarian turned back to them.

"He was quicker than the Mountain." He took his shirt and boots from Gord, but he was in no hurry to put them on. "Didn't hit as hard as him though, thank the gods."

"Are you all right?" Jon asked. Guilt curdled in his stomach. "I'm sorry for getting you. I know you didn't want to fight. We just knew he wouldn't…"

"Jon, it's done," Tiresias said firmly, but not ungently. He then reached down gingerly for the polestaffs at his feet. Robb stepped forward and picked them up.

"Thank you, Robb," Tiresias said, coming back up. He sighed. "I understand, Jon and it's all right. And I'm all right. I am. I'm sore now and I'll be sore for a few days after, but I am all right."

He chuckled. "Believe me, lads. Bruises are nothing to a broken arm."

Robb nodded, hiding his own disappointment.

"You fought well, Tiresias. It was close." He gestured toward the polestaffs. "We'll put these back for you."

"I appreciate that," Tiresias said. He lifted his head to the sky and sighed slowly. No hurry to shield from the cold, he instead took it in. Jon eyed his feet. They still weren't blue and his breath didn't tremble.

The librarian met their eyes. "I'm going to soak in the springs. I won't see you lot until tomorrow. Have a good evening."

They said their pleasantries and walked off, back in the sea of grumbling disappointment from the Northerners. Jon twisted around and looked to the Dornish side, where Prince Oberyn was exiting the yard with his daughters. The cold was still affecting him and he walked stiffly, though his face was still smirking and laughing with his soldiers.

Jon couldn't help but stared back at Tiresias retreating form as he walked back with Gord, still barefoot, still carrying his shirt. He limped slightly, but he breathed easy. He didn't shiver from the chill.

Tiresias sighed in relief as he dipped his feet in the springs. They weren't frozen but they were still able to gleam some comfort from the warm water as it enveloped them. He had already scrubbed himself outside the spring, soaping and rinsing his body gingerly where the Prince had struck. His thigh, the right side of his back, his face…

But nothing was broken. That was his standard now for grievous injuries. Maester Luwin had looked him over quickly and determined he would only be sore for a few days. So he let his feet soak for another ten minutes before stepping out and drying himself off.

He wished it was snowing outside. He wanted to collect some ice and press it wrapped to his face. Oberyn had a good right hook.

Instead he tolerated a throbbing cheek as he trudged back up through the castle. The Dornish were all off on their own tonight and the Great Hall would have been safe for him to enter. Still, he didn't feel like eating and he walked right past the relatively quiet supper, straight on up to the Warden's solar.

There were no guards at the solar door when he approached. His mood quickly fell when he reached out and tried the handle, only to find it locked. He dropped his hand, laughing lightly to himself.

Note to self; learn how to lockpick. With all your foolery, you'll most likely need to break in somewhere. Or out.

He leaned gingerly against the wall on his left side and waited. Lord Stark would be coming along soon. There was usually a task to be completed after supper. Before he saw to Lady Catelyn and the children.

Sure enough, his ears perked at the approaching boots, the familiar scent that came into focus as the Warden rounded the corner. No guards accompanied him. And he did not seem surprised to see his librarian waiting by the solar door.

Tiresias nodded as Lord Stark extracted his keys. They entered the solar without a word spoken. Once the door was shut, he lit candles, bringing his stern face under a warm glow. Stepping behind his desk, he gestured for Tiresias to sit, lowering himself into a chair as well.

Lord Stark did not miss Tiresias wincing as he sat.

"How are your injuries?"

He shrugged. "Sore, but they'll be short-lived. I imagine the same holds true for Prince Oberyn. No permanent harm. No foul."

"No foul?"

"Aye. No foul." Tiresias wasn't in the mood to tell Lord Stark to forget what he said. "At least that was my impression."

"And your intention as well?"

About to shrug before realizing he only just shrugged some seconds ago, Tiresias shook his head slowly.

"I don't know…I certainly didn't wish to harm him. He is a Prince and a rather volatile one too…"

"When I said I would stand by your decision not to fight him, I meant it."

"I believe that. And appreciate it too. I truly do." Tiresias tapped the arms on his chair lightly. "But he is royalty. And he did travel such a long way to satisfy a curiosity. To deny that…well, I tried to placate it as well as I could. Until today…"

A scoff escaped him. "Who knows? Maybe I just wanted to see if I could beat him. It was a little reckless…but hardly the worst mistake I've made."

"So far," Lord Stark muttered.

"Aye…aye, so far."

Ned leaned forward, the candlelight growing in his eyes.

"You lost some standing as a warrior today. You know that, don't you?"

"I do."

"Are you all right with that?"

A conversation came forth in Tiresias' memory. Some recollections were buried deep in his mind. Only revealing themselves after some time.

"You don't fight in tournaments, do you, my Lord? Why's that?"

The answer was there in the Warden's eyes. Still Tiresias voiced it.

"You don't wish another man to know what you can do. Should you fight him for real."

"You did fight today, Tiresias. In front of hundreds of men." Lord Stark's tone was quite suspicious. "And you lost."

Tiresias nodded. "Aye, I did. So they saw."

Lord Stark leaned back, the shadows coming back onto his face. With his suspicion validated, his eyes seemed quite grim. Tiresias listened to the candles burn for a few seconds. They were a quiet whisper of heat, conspiracy in their flame.

"Did you already know?" he asked softly.

Ned shook his head. "I had my doubts…but I didn't see it. It was a good show."

"Didn't have to try too hard." Tiresias reminded himself not to touch his face. "Prince Oberyn's a talented warrior. Did you see him after?"

"No."

"Well, if you see him, if he isn't satisfied by today…I don't know what to do. To get him to leave...all right, that's a lie. I should say what I'm willing to do."

The silence between them permeated. Tiresias eyed the papers on his desk and stood.

"I'll let you get back to your evening. G'night, Lord Stark."

He turned to the door, just as Lord Stark spoke behind him.

"He won't be satisfied." He turned back to see the Warden looking straight at him. "A man with a thirst like that…he'll never be satisfied."

Tiresias bowed his head. He wasn't surprised. It was exactly to what he said to Theon, Robb and Jon only yesterday. Finally he looked back up.

"Aye, he won't," he said, placing his hand on the door. "But hopefully he'll leave to satisfy that thirst elsewhere."

With that, he nodded farewell and departed the solar, Lord Stark's knowing eyes on his back. He sensed the Warden's doubt following him all the way back to his room.