Chapter 16

The departure for the Wall was a muted affair for the inhabitants of Winterfell. Lord Stark had insisted on it. Not wanting to depart with a huge fanfare. Farewells were exchanged the night before, as the men would be leaving at dawn. Fifty guards would accompany Lord Stark and Ser Rodrik to the Wall.

Clark was the outlier to this group and he definitely felt like it. There would be no horse for him. Instead he would be riding in the wagons with the stewards. Not that that particularly irked him. When it came to his augmented abilities in Westeros, horsemanship was not one of them. The wagon may jolt a little in keeping up with the riders, but it was a small price to pay in order to tag along.

He exited the kitchen, carrying his rucksack and a cloth bag full of warm bread. Most of the soldiers were already mounted and the wagons were lined up, ready for departure. Clark found his vehicle and climbed aboard, giving a nod to Stef, the steward who sat at the reins.

He tossed the bag of bread down by the dried goods and made his way to his corner of the cart, where he had placed a large trunk. Despite knowing that he probably didn't have time to fetch anything that he might have forgotten, he nevertheless opened the trunk to check its contents.

Most of the trunk was empty. The excuse for its presence was the transportation of tomes from Castle Black to Winterfell. However, in the corner sat a tied bag. He patted the bag, confirming its contents. Underneath, lain diagonally was his latest purchase: a yew bow with a few curled hemp strings in the corner and a quiver of arrows. He ran his fingers across the weapon. It had set him back a fair amount of coin to get it. To be honest, he should have bought it months ago. It was still new and needed more breaking in. But it would do for now.

He tossed his rucksack in and closed the trunk. He would string the bow later, farther north along the Kingsroad. Making his way back to Stef, he sat in the passenger seat.

Not a moment too soon either. Ned Stark emerged from the Great Hall with Ser Rodrik and Catelyn Stark in tow. Ser Rodrik walked ahead briskly to mount his own horse at the front. At the entrance to the keep, Ned said his farewells to Catelyn. Clark turned his eyes to the front, allowing them some privacy.

The few remaining soldiers not on their horses were saddling up. The western gates were opening. Clark heard Stef yawn beside him and stifled his own. The grey light was beginning to creep into the sky.

A low chorus of "My Lord" began behind him. Ned Stark walked by the cart and straight on, not making any eye contact. Clark returned the favor. As far as anyone was concerned, it was Lord Stark's initiative that made this visit to the Wall a reality. Tiresias was simply the loony foreigner who asked to tag along. He turned back to look at Catelyn. She seemed sad to see her husband go, but not worried. It wasn't another war her Ned was riding off to.

Clark turned back to see Ned Stark mounting his horse. A destrier perhaps? After living with horses for more than a year, he was still fuzzy on the different types. He shrugged it off. Another fun subject to study if he managed to survive beyond the Wall.

He could hear shouts from the front guard and the small train began to move. Stef didn't even have to nudge the horses in front to begin walking. Clark closed his eyes. The smells of the Winterfell yard were quickly replaced with the morning fires of Wintertown and then with the open meadows surrounding the Kingsroad. He felt the wagon slowing for a turn. He opened his eyes.

It took a little while for the wagons and horses to make the right turn. But they increased their speed once everyone was lined up. Clark resisted the urge to open his fur jacket (for which he traded his fur cloak, wanting greater mobility) and feel the cooling wind. Stef was a born Northerner and he was bundled tightly against the morning chill. Tiresias shouldn't seem to fare any better.

As the raven flew, it was six hundred miles from Winterfell to Castle Black. The Kingsroad added about fifty additional miles to that journey. Clark thanked the numerous deities in this world that he was riding instead of walking as he did from the Riverlands to Winterfell.

Not to say that riding in a cart on the Kingsroad had no downfalls. After Winterfell, the road received significantly less maintenance, as there were fewer travelers. Inns were scarce in this part of Westeros and they camped more nights than not. It didn't matter to Clark. He rejoiced inside whenever they did stop. The jolting of the wagon was persistently irritating and he had to refrain actively from sulking. He simply became more taciturn.

After a week of travel, they paused by a river. After stretching and massaging his ass, Clark consulted the map and saw that this waterway had the clever name of Last River. As it was the northernmost river in the North. Clark almost groaned out loud. Instead he put the map away and began to help set up the camp.

They were only whole three days from Castle Black. To the east was Last Hearth, the hold of the Umbers. He wished he could see it for himself. Unfortunately, Ned Stark had decided that they would stop at Last Hearth on their return journey. It was no guarantee that Tiresias would accompany them.

The atmosphere that night was subdued. The soldiers around the campfire made little noise as to not distract the guards on duty around the camp. This may have been friendly territory with the Umbers to the east and the hill tribes having no quarrel with the Starks. Still, the men took their duty seriously and kept their ears and eyes open for the whole night, in protection of their liege lord.

Not that there was anything particularly dangerous nearby. Clark kept his ears open as well and he couldn't discern enemies or any large animals lurking in the darkness. Ned Stark seemed relaxed enough. He didn't separate himself from his men. He didn't even bring his lord's tent. He slept outside like everyone else. He ate and sat at a different campfire every night, mingling with his men, knowing them all by name or getting to know the ones he didn't.

He didn't speak to Clark however, which suited him fine, though they shared a fire one or two nights. This evening, however, they sat on opposite ends of the camp. Clark was reading a tome by firelight when the guard changed. He looked to see Gord coming from the darkness and returned to his tome.

"Anything dangerous out there?" he asked.

Gord took a pull from his waterskin. "Nah. Might've heard couple of squirrels fucking but that's all." The big man sat on a log, which creaked under his weight.

Clark turned a page. "Well, it's wonderfully romantic tonight."

That got a good laugh from Gord. "Your words, mate. Not mine." He rubbed his face, yawning. Out of Clark's periphery, he could see the big man fidgeting, looking around, before coming to stare at the fire. Clearly, a question was at the front of his mind.

"What?" Clark asked, continuing to follow his book.

Gord waved it away. "Just wondering…it's romantic, aye? Forest? Campfire?"

His eyebrows raised to his hairline, Clark turned to Gord, who seemed to realize how that sounded.

"Nah, I mean..." he said quickly, barely suppressing a laugh. "I meant, do you think…you think a woman might enjoy an evening out like this? Some summer night in the wood? Wine? Food? A fire and stars?"

Clark considered it. "Don't see why not. I like those things."

"Aye, but do you think…" He swallowed and began again. "Do you think Ginn would like that?"

Powerless to stop the shit-eating grin that spread on his face, Clark returned to his book.

"Don't laugh! I'm serious, mate," said Gord, laughing himself. "I think…I think it'd be nice."

"It would be…are you and Ginn seeing each other?"

"Naaahh…I mean, we're friendly. She smiles at me often." He looked to Clark and sighed exasperated. "Well, it wouldn't happen the first time when I court her. When she feels all right with me, I'll suggest it…and I swear—by my mother—it'll go no further than supper by a campfire..."

"I think it's a lovely idea," interjected Clark, as he turned a page. He swallowed the grin. "Feel better?"

"Aye," said Gord, nodding. "Aye, I do."

He took another swig from his flask, before changing the subject.

"What are you reading?"

"The First Hold," responded Clark, without losing his place. "A history of the Nightfort. As much as they can make of it. Hardly any of it can be verified."

"Not going to the Nightfort, are we? Just Castle Black and Eastwatch?"

"As far as I know."

"So why you reading that?"

Trying to find the same passage that Sam and Gilly took to get back south of the Wall.

Clark shrugged. "I've a special place in my heart for sad and haunted places. Also, it's a wonderfully creepy story to read in the middle of a dark forest."

Gord chuckled. "Fair enough. I'm sorry I haven't been able to spar with you this past sennight."

"That's all right. You've your duty. And I mine."

"Just up to see a library, right?"

Clark closed the tome. He couldn't concentrate on it anymore. "I'd gone up there in a short time anyway. Maester Aemon has listed several volumes gathering dust that could greatly benefit Winterfell. He seems quite generous. I'm just glad I can travel with a group for once. Have some protection. Won't always be the case."

Gord waved that away. "You can take care of yourself."

Clark shrugged. "We'll see."

Looking into the fire, Gord scratched his chest. "I think we can spare one more log before we sleep."

"I'll get it," said Clark, putting the tome down and rising to cross to the wood pile. The soldiers didn't put the role of steward on him and they assisted with the camp as well. However, Clark felt compelled to help. He didn't want to feel like a passenger.

He returned with a medium-sized log, which he let fall gently into the fire. The structure collapsed under the weight and he reached in quickly to readjust the wood. Careful to keep his hands away from the actual flames, he brought the fire up to a sensible roar. He sat back down and saw Gord staring at him.

"Yes?"

The big man shook his head. "You've tough hands, mate. Not too hot?"

Clark looked at his hands and shrugged. "Didn't touch the flames. Just a little heat. Not my first time tending a campfire."

Gord took a swig from his flask and tossed it to Clark. "Well, you Essosi are more inclined to heat than us, I suppose." He took out his sword and his whetstone.

Clark took his own swig and held it, letting the drink burn for a bit before swallowing.

"Have you ever been to the Wall, Gord?"

"Nah. Farthest north I've been is Last Hearth. Three years ago." He laid his sword flat and paused. "They say we'll be able to see it a day away. You've never traveled there yourself, have you?"

Clark gazed on the dancing flames. "Only in dreams. I've flown there. Over it. Seen battles. Seen it fall."

Gord chuckled, positioning his sword for sharpening. "Exciting dreams. Must be all the reading."

Clark felt a small smile form. "Aye. That must be it."

On the last day of their journey, Clark felt something he only ever felt once before; when he had first laid eyes on Winterfell. Something familiar, but only ever seen through the medium of television; a set, a dressed-up location.

Seeing the Wall on a television screen or through his laptop was one thing. Seeing it in actuality was something else entirely. Gord was right, the morning of their last day of traveling, they saw something through the trees. A wall of white that grew larger and larger as the horses continued forward. Clark found himself grateful for the Wall revealing itself so early. He had time to space his awe. Seven hundred feet is quite a height. Seeing that height span into the distance both east and west was something else.

Some of the soldiers shared his awe, staring at the nearing Wall wide-eyed until they remembered their duty and returned their eyes to their current surroundings. Clark didn't share their duty and continued to gawk at the Wall unabashedly.

Gord laughed when he saw his friend's face. "Seen anything like that in Essos, Tiresias?"

Clark shook his head. "The titan in Braavos…the bridge in Volantis…nothing like this though."

"Except in dreams?"

"Aye…aye, my dreams."

A couple of hours past midday, he saw another familiar place come into view. Castle Black was nearing and he felt his heart pounding. He lowered his head and breathed, determined not to be a grinning idiot in front of the Night's Watch.

He kept his head lowered as they approached the gates. The guards were shouting above to open for the Warden, having seen the direwolf banners raised before Lord Stark. Eyes on his boots, he heard the clashes of training swords, the beating of ironworks and a persistent wind that echoed through the open yard. Finally the wagon halted and he raised his head.

Castle Black was frozen in time. The buildings were all the same. Perhaps there were a few more Watchmen than there were at the start of the series, but they were the same motley collection of mostly old men, criminals, poor boys with no other course in life and they were all staring at Lord Stark, dismounting from his horse.

The yard grew even more quiet as a group of men in black exited the castle's interior and strode toward Lord Stark. A tall barrel of a man led them. His hair was slightly more blonde but his eyes held the same calm ferocity…

Lord Commander Jeor Mormont shook Lord Stark's hand and welcomed him officially to Castle Black. They didn't smile but their faces became less lined, which meant the greeting was quite amiable. Two men of the North who shared the same curt, stoic, and honorable approach to life.

Well, honorable to a point. For each of them.

Still, Clark smiled to himself. It really was no wonder that Jon Snow took such a shine to Jeor Mormont.

The smile only widened when another man stepped forward from the group and gripped Ned's hand. Benjen Stark smiled openly at his brother, which caused Ned to grin as well. The formal handshake done, the two brothers embraced each other. Clark shook his head. Benjen was perhaps as young as him…which was a really weird thought.

Realizing he was still grinning like an idiot, he wiped the smile from his face when he observed the rest of the yard. Everyone else looked quite serious. He scanned for more familiar faces. Over by the practice yard, he looked for someone tall and scowling with curly hair…and there was Ser Alliser Thorne, who was glaring at Lord Stark openly with loathing. If he wasn't wearing gloves, Clark guessed he would see his knuckles turning white…

A skilled fighter, a tough asshole…he would be a great asset if he could drop his prejudice against the Free Folk…

Clark sighed. That would be a tough sell. And probably unsuccessful. Still he logged the thought away as he scanned the area…

He didn't see Edd, who was probably not here yet. Yoren was probably carting around the Seven Kingdoms for recruits and Qhorin Halfhand was absent as well. Grenn was on his farm and Pyp might be singing for lords already…

At the front of the company, Lord Stark turned from Mormont to give instructions to the captain of his guards before ascending the stairs with the officers of the Night's Watch. The captain turned to the company.

"All right," he called. "Stable the horses and help with the supplies. After we're unloaded, we'll be shown to our quarters."

The men all dismounted and the stewards jumped from the wagons to begin herding the horses to the stables. Clark remained seated, watching Lord Stark walk with Mormont and Benjen to, what he assumed was, the Lord Commander's office. They stopped as an older man exited the building, being guided by a steward. The group paused before the old man, who nodded his head and reached out his hand.

Ned Stark shook Maester Aemon's hand and spoke to him. Clark couldn't hear what they were saying but it seemed quite respectful. Finally the old man dropped the Warden's hand and joined the officers as they proceeded indoors.

"Tiresias? Oy, Tiresias!"

Clark started. He was still in the wagon. Stef was holding the horses by the reins.

"You wanna come down?"

He climbed down. "Forgive me, Stef. I…" He indicated the Wall. "It's quite the sight, you know?"

"Aye, I know," said Stef, craning his neck to see the top. "Fucking big, innit? Let's get this loaded in quick. Sooner we can get out of this cold."

The horses unhitched and taken to the stables, Tiresias assisted the soldiers and the stewards as they unloaded supplies for their stay. Ned Stark didn't want to weigh down the resources of the Night's Watch to host his men. They also unloaded a few donations to the Watch, as a token of good will to Lord Mormont's new command.

Clark kept his near empty trunk in the wagon. He'll transfer the tomes there instead of lugging the damn thing to the library.

With all the men working, it all went by very quickly and they were shown their quarters for the next two nights. Clark would be sleeping with the stewards. Many of the soldiers immediately fell in their beds, eager to rest before supper. Days of traveling take a toll on everyone.

However, Clark only felt more energetic than before. He was at Castle Black for God's sake. Securing his knife and his fur jacket, but not needing either, he exited the quarters and prowled the railing which surrounded the yard. Winter may be over, but it was still getting dark early.

That wasn't slowing Ser Alliser Thorne down though. The recruits were still out, still armored and still swinging their swords, their breath fogging as they panted. Ser Alliser's anger at Lord Stark's arrival had not abated and he was sure that this training would last long into the night. Maybe he wanted to avoid Lord Stark at supper tonight…

Clark had debated whether or not to approach Ser Alliser during this trip. He decided not to during the trek and this only cemented his decision. The man was too angry. Besides he was not here to convince anyone. Not yet.

He asked a passing black brother where the library was and received a silent point. He turned to thank the man, but he was already walking away. Taking no offense, he headed in the indicated direction.

A soft snowfall began as Clark entered the library. It was empty, which wasn't a surprise. Lighting a lantern, he entered the shelves, his footfalls creaking lightly on the ancient floor. His eyes scanned the tomes. It seemed organized enough. Maester Aemon did a fair job with that.

Before anyone could interrupt him, he looked for the maps. The racks of scrolls seemed a logical place to start. It took a few minutes but he located them. He commandeered a table next to the fireplace, placing the lantern on top. It took two trips to carry all the maps to the table, though he made sure to mark their places.

The fire in the hearth was low, so Clark placed two more logs on top gently and brought the fire to a medium blaze. Turning to the maps, he began to unfurl them, scanning them. Quickly, but not so much that he would damage them. He was looking for something specific…

Finally on the fourteenth scroll, he found it; a detailed rendering of the land beyond the Wall. As far as the Night's Watch knew. Their knowledge was severely limited compared to that of the Free Folk…

Regardless he only needed to know one place. His finger traced north from Castle Black and he found it. A marker which read Craster's Keep. Compared to the rest of the map, this marking looked relatively new.

His finger rested on the marker for a solid minute, and began to tremble slightly. He removed his finger and cleared his throat, working backwards from the Keep. Taking note of the mile markings at the bottom of the map, he measured a journey from Castle Black. It seemed that the whole journey spanned about sixty miles northwest. Not as bad as he had feared. If it was a clear road, he would be there in two days. Unfortunately, the Haunted Forest would not provide such a straight path.

Nevertheless, he scanned the map again and figured out a workable path to Craster's Keep, taking note of various markers along the way; rivers, trails and such. He had to work quickly. He realized that having all the various maps open was a suspicious sight for anyone who walked in.

Having marked his pending journey beyond the Wall, Clark began to roll up the maps, as delicately and as quickly as he possibly could. Each scroll returned to its rightful place.

As Clark deposited his second to last map, he heard the library door creak open. He froze, the shuffling of a slow step coming near the fire, where the final scroll laid, the clink of chains accompanying the steps…

Clark walked back to the table, forcing himself to remain calm. He rolled the map closed as quietly as he possibly could and walked back to the map rack, softening his footsteps and placing the scroll back gingerly. He turned to see Maester Aemon emerge from the shelves, his white eyes turned to the fire.

Clearing his throat, Clark stepped forward.

"Maester Aemon?"

To Clark's relief, the old man didn't start. He simply turned his ear to the new voice in his library.

"Yes, that's me. To whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

Clark reached for Aemon's hand, shaking it.

"I'm Tiresias, the librarian at Winterfell." Clark swallowed, struggling to contain his excitement. "I came here with Lord Stark's entourage."

"Ah, you're here for some books."

"Only what you can spare, Maester. I don't want to take anything that's near and dear to you or the men."

Aemon waved away the sentiment and settled into his chair by the fire. He didn't need to fumble for it.

"I wouldn't be concerned about the men, Tiresias. Most of them are illiterate anyway. Those that can read are often too busy with their own duty."

"And yourself?"

Aemon couldn't resist a laugh. "I'm a little blind for letters now."

"Don't tell you haven't had your steward read out loud to you before."

"Chett is a good man and a great help. A good orator he is not. He takes what is written and recites it so drearily."

Clark shrugged, not wanting to pass judgment on poor Chett. "Well, I'm no great orator myself. I just read."

Aemon smiled. Though his eyes were dulled white, they were still expressive. A curious look came over him. Clark had a short guess as to what the old man would ask.

"Your accent…it's quite peculiar."

And his guess was correct. "So I've been told. I'm not from Westeros."

"Where are you from?"

"Essos. My people traveled in between the Free Cities and the bays up north. This cold almost feels like home."

Aemon hummed blithely at that, tapping his fist lightly on the chair. The fire crackled and sent soft shadows across the old dragon's face. Clark waited for him to speak.

"So," stated Aemon. "Would you care to get started?"

"Maester?"

"Well, you seem quite excited. Polite, but excited. To see our tomes, no doubt. Soon to be yours."

"Soon to be Winterfell's, Maester," interjected Clark. Perhaps a bit too quickly. "But supper should be beginning soon. We could start in the morning, when we're refreshed. To start gathering?"

"No need," said Aemon briskly. He stood from the chair and walked to the back table in the library, gesturing Clark to follow him. He did so, taking the lantern with him.

Aemon was slow due to his age, but he seemed completely confident in his whereabouts, reaching for the first volume without hitting the table first. He handed it to Clark, who was careful to keep it away from the lantern.

"After poring over the correspondence between Luwin and myself, Chett and I spent the last three nights gathering all materials we believed Winterfell would hold dear, and narrowing that down to what we were willing to part with. Every piece of writing in the Old Tongue. No one here can speak it. The histories of the North requested, the myths of the First Men, and those before."

He patted a pile of medium height. There were several such piles on the table. Aemon gave a short and somewhat sad laugh. "Narrowing down is perhaps the wrong way to describe it. Honestly, we struggled to find reasons to keep what we did."

Clark placed both the lantern and volume down on the table, cracking the latter open delicately. The ink was a little faded and the spine needed to be tightened, but it was in good shape for its age. He turned the pages gently.

"Maester Aemon, are you sure?" He straightened, facing the old man. "These are treasures. I don't wish to deprive you of all of them."

Aemon smiled sadly. "I've already been deprived of them, despite Chett's best efforts. It's because they are treasures, that I ask you and Lord Stark to keep them safe in Winterfell. Help them find eager readers. Even if it's just you."

Clark nodded. "I'll do my best."

"I'm sure." Aemon patted his hand. "How are you carrying these back to Winterfell?"

"A trunk in the wagon."

Aemon sighed. "I suppose that must do. You can start to carry them now if you would like. Afterwards, this library would still be open to you if you wish. Should you see anything else that catches your eye, please let me know. I'm sure you'll be able to take it as well."

Having already lost count of how many handshakes have occurred between them, Clark nevertheless shook Aemon's hand again.

"I'll be more than happy to explore this library tomorrow, Maester. But I highly doubt I'll be taking anything more. You've already been most generous to Winterfell."

Aemon smiled, patting his hand. "Supper begins in another hour. You should be done by then."

The old man returned to the fire and settled back into his chair, visibly relaxing in the heat and the glow of the flames. Careful not to damage any tomes, Clark picked up three volumes and moved for the exit.

All in all, it took eleven careful trips between the stables and the library. At the end of it, Clark had to extract his bow and supplies from the trunk to make room for the final volumes. After shutting the trunk and covering his gear, he made his way back to the library, careful to stamp his feet clear of snow before entering.

Aemon remained seated for the entire process, not even moving his head. Clark made his way to the hearth and the maester gestured to the chair beside him.

"Thank you," said Clark, taking the offered seat.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Normally the fire would have held Clark's attention, but now…he was alone with Maester Aemon and he couldn't stop staring at the man. The last known Targaryen in Westeros. The kind mentor and unknowing relative to Jon Snow. An old man who would find one of the few natural deaths in this story. That is if he was lucky enough this time around…

Clark knew he was taking advantage of the man's blindness, but he couldn't help it. He had to curb his incredulity every time he met a character he had come to know from the show. Never to let his enthusiasm show. Ultimately, living at Winterfell has dulled that aspect with the Starks, but how will he react to others? To the Lannisters? To Bronn? Tormund? Brienne?

He had to act like a human being in front of them and restrain himself. Lest he completely mess something up and doom the characters he was trying to save. Now, with Maester Aemon, with his blindness, he let the restraint down and simply stared. It was safe.

Or so he thought.

Maester Aemon cleared his throat. "Tell me, Tiresias. What do you find so fascinating about my face?"

Clark stilled. "Maester?"

"My face, Tiresias." Aemon's tone was light enough, but it was still sharp. "You've been staring at it for the past few minutes."

Averting his eyes to the fire, Clark shrugged. "What if I told you, you were extraordinarily handsome?"

"I'd call you a criminal liar."

Clark laughed. "Aye." He leaned back and sighed. "Forgive me for staring, Maester. You're just…you're not what I picture when someone says Prince."

"Former Prince," corrected Aemon, before sighing himself. "That was a long time ago."

"It was," said Clark quietly. "I suppose I should wait until I meet more Princes to make this judgment. But you're certainly the most helpful and kindest Prince I've ever come across."

"Not a high standard, I suppose. But I thank you all the same."

"You're welcome."

Clark's stomach chose at that moment to give a great growl, which didn't need a silent library to be heard.

"Excuse me."

"Not at all," said Aemon, as he stood. "I believe that's our signal to head down to the dining hall. Would you be so good as to lend me your arm?"

"Of course," said Clark, springing to his feet and crossing to the maester. They exited the library. There was a brother of the Night's Watch coming toward them, his arm extended.

"Thank you, Chett, but you may go ahead," Aemon called out, before Chett even opened his mouth. "I'll be guided to supper by my new friend, Tiresias, here. You'll have one respite for the evening."

Chett nodded. "Of course, Maester," he said briefly. His eyes found Clark's, nodding in greeting before departing.

Maester Aemon continued along, with Clark suppressing his question. However Aemon must have sensed it anyway.

"Everyone has their own way of going about the world, Tiresias."

"His footsteps?"

"That's a part of it, yes."

They reached a staircase and began to descend.

"Would you recognize me if I walked into the library now?" asked Clark. "Before I spoke?"

"I doubt it. Chett is a regular companion."

They said nothing more for the rest of the walk. The murmurs of the dining hall were heard before they reached the entrance. The meal was already in full swing and bolstered by the Winterfell soldiers. Clark pressed the door open and the noise amplified even more. They made their way around the edge of the hall, heading to the high table. There was only one empty seat there left.

As they neared the high table, Aemon tapped Clark's shoulder. He lowered his head to hear.

"Thank you, Tiresias. I can find my place from here."

Clark nodded and lowered his arm, but the Maester didn't let go just yet. He leaned forward, his voice low enough to cut through the loudness of the Night's Watch and the Winterfell guard.

"I'm afraid you have an additional advantage on me, Tiresias. You seem to know my full name. And I don't know yours."

"It's just Tiresias, Maester Aemon."

He swallowed, immediately hoping the hall was loud to cover it. So Aemon wouldn't hear it. The old maester lifted his eyebrows.

"I see…not even Tiresias of Lorath, Saath or Morosh? Whichever bay city your family frequented?"

"I'm afraid not."

"I see." Maester Aemon gave a small smile. "Well, that wouldn't be true anyway, would it?"

The room seemed to grow quieter. Clark glanced and saw that the men were still talking, ignorant of what Maester Aemon just said. He turned his eye back to Aemon, who was still smiling benevolently. A line from the show came to him…

He smiled grimly. "You grew up in King's Landing."

Aemon peered at him, his eyes quite focused for being blind. "Pardon?"

"That's how you knew. You know what a lie sounds like. A common thing at court, I would imagine."

A small laugh came from the maester. "Indeed. Now, before I leave you, I will ask…should I be concerned that you lied?"

"I mean you no harm. You or the Night's Watch." He paused, waiting for Aemon. "That wasn't a lie, unless you couldn't tell."

"Certainly didn't sound it. But you didn't answer my question. Should I be concerned?"

"No," he stated immediately.

Several seconds passed. Clark could see a few of the brothers looking their way, wondering what intense conversation was taking place between this stranger and their castle maester. Finally Aemon dropped his hand.

"I'll see you in the library tomorrow, my friend. Good evening."

With that, Aemon turned and walked toward the high table, his chains clinking. Clark forced himself to turn away and grab a bowl. He didn't need to be seen, staring shocked after the maester in front of everyone. He spooned some miserable excuse for a stew into his bowl, fetched some ale and sat down at the nearest table.

He was halfway through his meal when he looked up and realized that he knew absolutely no one at the table. A few of the bearded, hardened brothers of the Night's Watch stared back at him. The rest ignored him. He nodded in greeting and turned back to his stew.

"New recruit?"

He looked back up to see one of the brothers peering at him. Swallowing what he hoped was venison, he shook his head.

The brother took a draught, wiping the spilled ale from his beard. "Why you here then?"

Clark took his own sip. It took a considerable effort not to wince. Sansa wasn't being a snob about this ale. It really was repulsive. Too sour.

"Here for your books. For the library in Winterfell."

With that, whatever interest the men had in this stranger evaporated. They returned to their bowls. Clark took another reluctant drink and turned his attention to the high table. Maester Aemon was eating calmly. The old man's perception was quite inconvenient, but he wasn't too concerned. Aemon Targaryen was committed to his life on the Wall. If Winterfell employed a foreigner who told a fib, it probably wouldn't concern him much.

His eyes wandered to the center where Ned Stark was conversing with Jeor Mormont. The distance and many conversations between them made it impossible for Clark to overhear, but it seemed like a calm and earnest chat. He brought his eyes down and finished his meal. He wasn't too peeved to be left out. He knew that as an outsider, he would have limited access to the interesting nobles and lords and commanders to hear their thoughts. Most of it would be filtered through Ned Stark. This wasn't the show where the audience was a fly on the wall to political backstabbings and war plans.

In truth, there was a part of that which appealed to him. He didn't care to be known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. If he was and his deeds were made known, he would become a target himself. In the back of his mind, he gave himself a light curse for sparring with Anthor Apperford. Thankfully that was a while ago and he was sure that any stories surrounding that fight had expired.

His teeth slammed something hard and he fought to keep a swear in. He moved his tongue around and found a bone. Upon example of his dinner companions whenever they tasted something unsavory, he spat it out and finished his ale.

The next morning, Clark rose early to browse the library. The cold was apparent, even though it didn't bite him. His breath thick as he entered the courtyard, he grabbed his flint and steel from the Winterfell wagons.

He started a fire, more for the company and began searching the shelves. Maester Aemon did a thorough job cleaning out the library for them. He found no additional volumes of the Old Tongue and the histories he pulled already had copies or similar texts in Winterfell. Not that he expected to get much out of the complied histories. The authors of these tomes were heavily biased and it was apparent in the writing that the reader would never receive the whole story.

Funny enough, it was sifting through the biographies of individuals and cross referencing them with the general accounts that Clark seemed to understand the bigger and more complete version of history. Combined with boring accounts of weather, trading and agricultural records and he was somewhat able to read through whatever some old man had scribbled years and years ago.

At least he hoped. He wasn't blind to bias himself.

With that in mind, he went for the records. He knew that the Night's Watch couldn't let these go. He doubted there were any copies. However, he set aside numerous records of the Night's Watch, dating back hundreds of years. Their intakes, their numbers, their logged activites. He took out a bit of parchment, scribbling down a request for copied information to be sent to Winterfell. Not all of it, of course. Just enough to get an idea on how to manage the Night's Watch or simply to know them better. Who knew? Perhaps the secret to dropping their vendetta against the wildings laid in their treasury intake.

He snorted, doubting it fully. But he still placed his scribbled request on top of the requested records on the table.

Afterwards, he sat and wrote a letter. He paused and started again many times, wondering just how the hell to convey what he wanted to say. Finally he settled on something that he could live with it. He dried the final copy, sealed it and threw the previous drafts into the fire. He watched them all burn, not wanting anyone else to possibly read what he had sealed away.

Footsteps came from the outside and he stood as the library door opened. Stef came into the library, his eyes finding Clark's.

"Lord Stark wants to see you." He didn't wait for a response, before turning and walking away. Clark pocketed the letter and followed.

They straddled the main courtyard. Soldiers from Winterfell were intermingling with the Night's Watch, mostly in the training yard where spars were held under the strict supervision of Ser Alliser and Ser Rodrik. They didn't look happy to be sharing the responsibility.

Clark expected to be taken to the King's Tower, where Lord Stark had been given his quarters. However, Stef veered north and he saw the lift, where Lord Stark stood waiting.

Oh…oh yes. Yes!

He kept his stupid grin off his face, not wanting to show too much excitement for where he realized they were heading.

"Lord Stark," said Stef as they approached, indicating Clark. "As requested."

Ned nodded. "Thank you, Stef. That'll be all."

As Stef walked off, Lord Stark entered the lift, his hand on the cage door. Clark followed and Ned shut it, before pulling the lever to the right.

The lift began to creak and crawl upwards. It was slow, but Clark stepped to the edge, peering out over the Northern landscape which emerged more and more as the lift climbed. He had forgotten what it felt like to be hundreds of feet in the air, whether in a skyscraper, a plane or anything of the sort. The people turned to ants below him, the castle a miniature. He felt his stupid grin emerge and swallowed it before turning to Ned Stark.

The Warden looked calm and collected, taking in the view but not indulging himself.

Was there ever a time when Ned Stark allowed himself to feel excited after childhood? Did he ever have that opportunity?

Knowing that these questions probably wouldn't be answered, he settled on the matter at hand.

"If I may, my Lord, what came of the talks between you and Lord Mormont?" he called over the creaks of the gears.

Lord Stark shook his head. "Not now. Wait 'til we're up top."

And so they remained silent for the remainder of the trip. The lift was slower than any elevator that Clark had ever ridden. Finally, at seven hundred feet, the lift halted and Ned opened the cage, walking calmly but carefully along the Wall. Clark followed, watching his own footing.

They walked for a minute or two east, before Ned turned north into an opening. They were on a platform, similar to the one where Jon and Sam stood watch during their first guard together. A fire ran in the brazier which Ned stood next to. Clark walked gingerly to the edge; his eyes transfixed on what laid beyond the Wall.

The haunted forest stretched as far as he could see, with enormous mountains to the east. The wind rushed to meet him. He lowered his eyes and focused on the tree line. No one stalked the forests, at least not from what he could see.

"They're out there, aren't they?" said Lord Stark, behind him.

He raised his eyes and stared out into the distance, a small part of him wanting to focus and see the Night King's fortress glowing in the never-ending winter light. He chuckled at the thought.

Staring across a thousand of miles of frozen tundra. You're no Three-Eyed Raven, Clark.

He glanced back to Ned.

"They are. Far away at the moment, but they'll come. For now, the Haunted Forest should be untouched."

Ned stepped forward, staring beyond the Wall himself. He frowned at the harsh wind.

"So," said Clark. "What did Lord Commander Mormont say?"

"The man appreciates the renewed interest in the Wall. It won't be much, but the increased supplies and possibly, more suitable recruitment to the Wall will give us ample room to survey the situation ourselves and watch for any White Walker activity."

Clark raised his eyebrows. "Does Mormont know he's looking out for White Walkers?"

Ned shook his head. "No. However, the rangers have been hearing whispers of small conflicts in the far north. They believe it's just another wilding skirmish. There's nothing yet to suggest anything more. And I didn't take it upon myself to enlighten him last night."

Clark shrugged. "It wouldn't do for the news of the White Walkers to come from a man who sits hundreds of miles south of the Wall. I'd suggest the possibility though, maybe tonight when you're speaking with him. Mormont's a Northerner. He knows the White Walkers are history, not myth. If you want help, you could try talking to Maester Aemon first. He's more open to the possibility of ice monsters. Doesn't hurt that your brother's a ranger too."

Silence fell between the men. Clark walked back to the brazier. Not that he needed it, but he could sense Lord Stark beginning to tremble. He raised his hands to the fire.

"And the Free Folk?"

Ned joined him at the brazier and sighed. "A stalemate. They've the Wall. Free Folk have the numbers. I suggested the beginning of a truce. Not a full amnesty. Not yet. But a few families and workers who can settle. We'll need more men to harvest and work the land, not just to fight."

"How did he respond?"

"Respectful disagreement. However I reminded him of the instability of the situation. If they're in perpetual conflict, they're unable to replace all of the brothers killed by the Free Folk. They'll have to find another way or they'll all be killed.

"Mormont seemed to respect that, but he's new to his post. He's experienced and commands respect. But no leader should begin his command with decisions that will divide his men. He'll lose his support. It's why I can't declare total passage for the wildlings myself. Not to mention I've my own reservations."

An image of Jon Snow lying dead in the snow flashed through Clark's mind. Stabbed by his men…

"So we take it slow," said Clark. "The suggestions will be planted. Hopefully they'll take root and Mormont can enact peace offerings to the Free Folk."

"Assuming they even let us approach." Ned sighed. "I spoke with my brother. A ranger's hardly able to get two words in with a wildling before they come to blows."

Clark swallowed his next words and moved on. He didn't wish to speak his thoughts on the Free Folk unless he succeeded in his mission.

"You spoke to Benjen?"

Ned nodded. "He'll be the one who will smuggle you through the Wall tonight. Pack up what you need today and be ready. During the feast, he'll leave. Give it a few moments before you excuse yourself. Then grab your supplies and head to the tunnel entrance. He'll meet you there."

Clark checked the surroundings, but they were truly alone. Even the crows were absent this morning.

"I assume he knows my trip beyond the Wall is a secret to the Watch."

"He does."

"And he's not conflicted about going behind the Watch in aiding his brother?"

Ned met his eyes steadily. "He had some questions. I answered a few of them. I told him about the White Walkers."

"Does he believe you?"

"He hasn't seen any trace or evidence of them on his previous rangings. As I said, they believe the whispered troubles up north concern only the wildlings. No one else."

Warmed by the brazier, Ned walked back to the edge. Still a safe distance away.

"However, he's not entirely satisfied with that and neither are a few of the other rangers. Qhorin Halfhand has ranged farther north this winter than he has in years. What he has heard, or rather hasn't heard, unsettles him, according to Benjen. And if Qhorin Halfhand is perturbed what by he hears, then Benjen believes it must be more than wildlings out there."

Clark spat and dodged as the spit came back on the wind.

"So, in answer to my question, he's all right going behind the Watch for this…or the Wall, I guess?"

Ned nodded. "Aye. I told him you wish to strike against the White Walkers before they have a chance to grow. He's hesitant, but he agreed. Even if the White Walker threat is null, it's just one insane man heading north. Anyway, the vast majority of the Night's Watch doesn't believe in the White Walkers. He can't go to his men with this. Not yet."

A ghost of a smile formed on Ned's face.

"Besides, it's not unlawful to venture beyond the Wall."

"It's not about the law. It's about secrecy."

The wind quieted at that moment. Ned turned away from beyond the Wall and looked back at the passage. They were still alone. He faced Clark head on.

"Do you know where you're going?"

Clark nodded. "Rough idea. Might be risky, but I'll ask Benjen for a starting point I've marked. If I need it."

"Then I'll say my farewell here and now. I'm afraid at supper tonight, it'll be far more casual."

"The Night's Watch will think I've gone with you, even if they don't see me the next morning. That I've gone ahead. What are you saying to your men? Should they ask."

"You're staying to explore the library further. Eastwatch's library is paltry compared to this one."

The Lord of Winterfell walked forward and grasped Clark's hand, shaking it. The wind remained quiet for the farewell.

"Good luck, Tiresias."

"Thank you, Lord Stark."

He dropped his hand. "When should I expect to see you again?"

Clark shrugged. "Hopefully, I'll join you guys on the march back from Eastwatch. Meet you at Last Hearth with the Umbers. If not…well, I'll use Winterfell as a beacon and come limping back on the Kingsroad."

"Do you really expect your errand to take so long?"

Clark chuckled. Errand. Strange word for what he planned to do.

"I have no earthly idea. I don't want to spend more time out there than I have to and Craster is just one thing I need to take care of."

Ned gave a nod, his eyes resolute. "All right. Until we see each other again."

"Lord Stark," said Clark, slightly interrupting the Warden. "I actually have something for you. If you have a place where you can keep it secret."

Clark reached into his pocket and pulled out the sealed letter. He held onto it carefully, determined not to lose it to a sudden gust of wind. Ned eyed it.

"If I'm not back a year from now, you should consider me lost beyond the Wall," he stated. "And you should open that. Not beforehand. And if I return, I'll ask for this back, still sealed and I'll destroy it."

He handed the letter to Ned, who continued to stare at it.

"More warnings of the future?" he asked.

Clark nodded. "I had planned to let you in on these secrets gradually. But if I'm not there, you're better off with it. I tried to include what details I felt were necessary, but I fear it may not be as comprehensive as I would like."

He truly did try. He wrote briefly of the three Lannister bastards, the ambition of the Boltons, even of the coming double-edged sword of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, and more. It took all of his restraint to keep the letter as concise as possible. Even so, he watched Ned pocket the letter with some apprehension, as he tried to remember just one more detail to help. Just in case he didn't return.

Ultimately though, nothing came to mind and he simply resolved to return. Lord Stark gave a final nod and walked away.

"Lord Stark," called Clark.

Ned stopped and turned.

"Even if I succeed with Craster," he began. "Even if the Night's Watch, by some miracle, comes to an understanding with the Free Folk, don't underestimate your enemies. The Night King, despite all our efforts, will still have his army. Even if it's only half the size, he'll have it and he'll bring it to the North."

The wind returned and Clark had to call out that last bit. Lord Stark stayed still, his fur cloak whipping out behind him.

"You said enemies," he called back. "Whom else do you mean?"

Clark gave a grim smile. "Just hold on to that letter, Lord Stark. And know this, the end of days doesn't necessarily make allies of all men."

He shrugged. "That's it. That's all I have for now. Farewell, Lord Stark."

The wind sang for a few more seconds. Finally Ned mirrored Clark's grim smile. He tapped the pocket where he had stored the letter.

"Remember, during the feast, the tunnel," he said. "We'll be waiting for you to return."

And with that, Lord Stark walked away. Clark stood by the brazier for a few more minutes, before turning north again.

The edge stood only ten feet away from him and he recalled a dwarf in a similar position, facing north as he urinated off the Wall. Checking once to make sure that he was truly alone, he stepped gingerly toward to the edge. He made to adjust his trousers when he peered down and saw the drop.

He froze and walked back slowly, retying his trousers, his heart pounding.

Oh fuck no.

Whatever possessed Tyrion to do what he did, Clark didn't have the same gumption. He glanced down at the Haunted Forest and then up into the distance. He laughed, cursing himself lightly. It wouldn't bode well for his plans if he slipped off the Wall, pissing in a freefall.

Clark fought a low appetite and forced himself to eat during supper. It didn't help that whatever meat they had found was cooked down to practically rubber. Clark's jaw was aching by the time he was done with his portion.

Oh well. Might sit in my stomach longer.

At least the ale didn't taste nearly as sour as yesterday. Maybe he just got used to it overnight. He sat with his drink, looking to the high table every so often. Finally the moment came; Benjen Stark stood and finished his mug. He clapped Ned on the shoulder and exited the hall.

Sipping to cover his pounding heart, Clark remained seated. He needed to wait approximately ten minutes before leaving himself. He had to create enough of a berth…

Gord, seated next to him, nudged Clark.

"What's got you so fascinated at the high table? No pretty ladies there to draw your eye."

Clark yawned. "Just staring off. I'm tired."

"Tired from what? Sitting on your arse, turning pages?"

The tone was teasing, but Clark couldn't stop his voice from sounding tense.

"There's different kinds of tired, Gord. Not just from swinging swords. I have been working all day. I've earned the right to a few yawns."

"All right, all right, man. I know that. Just gaping. Sorry."

Clark looked into Gord's eyes and saw nothing malicious there or in his words. He sighed.

"It's all right, Gord. I'm sorry for being an ass. I don't know what's going on with me."

That was a lie. The upcoming trek was looming by the minute. He had about eight more minutes.

Gord waved off his apology.

"No worries, mate. I bloody well can't do the work you do." He raised his tankard. "Cheers to our hasty forgiveness."

"We've already cheered about ten times this evening, Gord."

"Just raise your fucking ale."

Clark started laughing. Gord joined him and together they clinked their mugs.

"To your library, Tiresias."

"Winterfell's library, my friend," corrected Clark lightly. "To your sword and your lessons, to which I am extremely grateful."

They drank. Clark finished his ale first and made his decision. It might be a little early, but the cheer was a good note to leave on. He waited until Gord finished his before standing.

"You off already mate?" asked Gord.

Clark clapped his friend's shoulder. "There's a massive amount of work left to do here, Gord. It's why I'm staying behind while you lot march off to Eastwatch. This evening's no different."

Gord patted his hand. "Well, fare you well then, Tiresias. Don't tire your eyes too much with the ink of dead men."

"I'll do my best. Now if you'll excuse me, I need a quick word with our betters."

He walked between the tables until he got to the edge, making his way to the high table. Halting before the table in front of the Lord Commander, he waited for a few seconds until Jeor Mormont noticed him.

"Excuse me, Lord Commander, for interrupting your dinner." He swallowed his spit. "I only wanted to thank you personally for the donation of tomes to the Winterfell library."

Jeor Mormont peered at him with polite interest. "Your name is…?"

"Tiresias, Lord Commander, the librarian at Winterfell." He nodded toward Ned Stark, seated beside Jeor. "Courtesy of Lord Stark here, of course. Anyway, thank you again, Lord Commander."

Jeor Mormont nodded. "Well, with all Winterfell has brought us on this visit and the promise of future support withstanding, a small literary donation seems more than fair."

"Not small by any means," said Clark, gesturing to Maester Aemon. "Maester Aemon was very generous."

The blind man nodded in Clark's direction. Jeor proceeded to cut his beef, which looked only slightly more appetizing than what Clark just ate.

"Well, however many you take south with you, I hope they find more eager readers than they found here," said Lord Mormont, before taking a measured bite.

Sensing his dismissal, Clark stepped back.

"I'm sure they will," he said, before giving a slight bow. "Good evening, Lord Commander. Lord Stark," he added in Ned's direction.

Ned nodded casually, his eyes meeting Clark's. They both knew what this goodbye was.

I hope I see you again, Lord Stark.

He entered the courtyard from the dining room, sighing in relief at the cool wind. Dinner in a hot, crowded hall with no one but men was not his idea of comfort. Also the smell was not great. The sensitivity he'd acquired was ideal for a trek in nature. Not in close quarters with vastly stinky men. Even just two nights was testing his patience.

The stables were deserted, save for the animals. Crossing to the wagons, Clark retrieved his supplies including the food he'd stolen from the kitchens earlier, his bow and arrows and the tied woven sack he'd been hiding since they left Winterfell. Double-checking that the trunk of tomes was sealed properly and that he had his dagger on his left side, he donned his fur jacket and left the stables.

He crossed the edge of courtyard quickly, confident that most were at the feast tonight. Even the patrols on the southern entrance were more transfixed by their fires than any activity inside the castle.

Having marked the location of the tunnel entrance earlier in the day, Clark exited the courtyard, his footsteps through the snow growing louder as he neared the Wall, further from the feasting black brothers. He turned the corner and saw the open entrance to the tunnel. Benjen Stark stood there, next to a sled piled with canvas, his eyes narrowed in on Clark, as he approached.

Halting before him, Clark held out his hand.

"Hello Benjen Stark. I'm Tiresias."

Benjen took his hand, but it seemed automatic. He looked around and dropped his hand almost immediately.

"All right, come on, when no one's looking," he muttered, turning and striding into the tunnel, dragging the sled behind him. Clark followed without hesitation, really hoping that no one saw him entering the tunnel.

They walked quietly. Clark didn't trust himself to speak. The echoes from these walls could carry all the way back to the entrance. As they walked through the ice tunnel, he also felt a tingle that he couldn't quite identify. It was similar to what he felt in the godswood at Winterfell.

Benjen lit a torch halfway through when the darkness became too much. He focused ahead, but Clark could sense the unasked questions being shot in his direction. And the incredulity. It was only on the brotherly trust between Benjen and Ned that allowed him to proceed north.

They reached the gate. Clark could hear the evening wind pounding against the iron. Benjen placed the torch in a holder and proceed to strip all the canvas off the sled. Once the sled was bare, he turned to Clark.

"Take your bags off. Lie down and hold them on top."

Swallowing his questions, Clark positioned himself on the sled, placing the bag between his feet, his bow and arrows by his arm and the rucksack on top. As he laid his head down, he saw Benjen take the torch and open a small slot in the iron gate. He struck the torch through against the wind and held it for a solid ten seconds.

"Signaling the watchman up top," he explained. He withdrew the torch and closed the slot, placing the torch back in the holder.

"That should do it," he muttered, picking up the canvas and turning to Clark. "Now don't move."

He proceeded to cover the sled with the canvas. Clark only had time to see his feet being concealed. The material doubled over and he was blinded. Dust and whatever these canvases used to hold filled his nostrils. He sniffed and guessed straw.

Something was tightening around his feet and worked its way up his body. He heard Benjen pulling ropes along the underside of the sled and securing it up before another sound entered his world. A great creaking as the iron gate lifted.

The first sound in the show…as the black brothers ventured north of the Wall…

As the creaking stopped, the sled jolted as he started to move.

"All right," said Benjen, somewhere above him. "Keep still and silent. It'll be a while."

The wind may not have chilled him, but he still felt it as he was sledded over the snow. They were in the open area in between the Haunted Forest and the Wall and nothing was there to protect Benjen from the wind. Clark hoped he was warm enough from the exertion. He also hoped he wasn't too heavy.

Benjen had spoken true. The sled ride was a long journey and Clark found himself more impatient than he expected to be and focused to calm down. He didn't like being tied up, but he also preferred not being found out and so he tolerated this constricted sled ride.

The sled glided gracefully enough though. More so than the wagon ride on the Kingsroad here. He gripped his supplies and closed his eyes. A part of him was tempted to try and sleep. He wasn't sure when he would get another chance to sleep on a flat surface. Also he wanted to rest before he got started. When he set up camp next, he wanted his fire to be out of sight of the Night's Watch that patrolled the Wall.

It would be a long trek on his part tonight.

He heard the wind die down and he surmised that they had reached the Haunted Forest. Tuning his ears, he heard animal cries. Most sounded solitary. The eerie music that accompanied the travelers in the show was absent and not for the first time, he missed Ramin Djawadi. However, he was also glad for the cold silence. It focused him.

Finally the sled stopped. He heard Benjen catching his breath and then felt the ropes loosen. A fresh gust of air swept over him as the canvases flew off. Benjen stood, flushed and slightly panting.

Clark slowly sat up, feeling his limbs stretch as he did. He placed his supplies on the snowy ground and glanced from Benjen to the trees. A pile of bags sat piled by a tree. High in the sky, a series of lights laid in a straight line and he blinked. The Wall stood behind the trees, perhaps half a mile from them, the lights of the watch beacons in the darkness.

"They can't see us from here," said Benjen, answering his unspoken question. "I came here this morning with those bags. I return with them tonight. From that distance…" He nodded to the top of the Wall. "A sled topped with bags looks enough like what I brought out."

"What will you say you were doing out here?"

"Ranger business."

Clark turned his eyes from the Wall and scanned the forest that would be his home for hopefully not too long. It certainly did look dark and foreboding. However that was the usual feeling he got whenever he went camping after sundown. Every morning felt like relief to a fun nightmare.

However none of his fun nightmares brought on by camping were encroached on by White Walkers or any other dangers beyond the Wall. He shook himself. He had to get going. Shouldering his rucksack and quiver, he turned to pick up his bow and saw Benjen staring at him.

"Yes?" he asked, hopefully not too impolitely.

Benjen eyed his attire. "Is that all you're wearing?"

Clark patted his clothes down. He certainly looked underdressed. Aside from the fur jacket, he was dressed for an overcast day in autumn and definitely not for beyond the Wall.

"This isn't my first time wandering about in the cold, Stark."

"You've never been in this cold before."

Clark picked up his bow. It was unstrung, the hemp bowlines in the rucksack. He'd double-checked it in the stables.

"I already gave my word to one Stark that I can survive in this cold. Do I have to give it to another?"

Benjen said nothing to that. He strode to the bags by the trees and began loading them onto the sled. He threw the canvas over and began roping it. Clark waited for it, the question building inside the youngest brother.

Finally, Benjen stood and faced Clark. The darkness was no deterrent to Clark and he saw every ounce of controlled bewilderment, grim fear and determination in Benjen's face. The determination was perhaps not so pure as Ned's (life as a ranger was no joke) but he could definitely read them as siblings.

"Why do you say the White Walkers are back?"

"I saw them."

"Not in the flesh."

"Fortunately no. Least not yet."

"So in prophecies then? Dreams? Visions?"

Clark shrugged. "Take your pick. I'm sorry that that's not a great explanation, but I'm afraid I don't know how to describe it. It's just a future that I'm determined to change. It's…complicated."

"I just don't know how you convinced my brother to go along with it."

"I'm sure he told you enough. Otherwise you wouldn't have helped me past the Wall."

Benjen didn't deny this. Silence reigned in the Haunted Forest, even the birds were quiet. Clark knelt down and opened the sack.

"I know you've heard rumblings from Qhorin Halfhand from the far North. Skirmishes that seem unnatural. The farthest villages missing their Free Folk. Come a few years and those disappearances will come south enough to be noticed by the Night's Watch. Rangers will start to disappear. Until finally on a night like this one, you'll notice blue eyes peering at you from the darkness. They'll be the last thing you see.,"

He looked to Benjen, who seemed to grow more still.

"If I were you, I wouldn't set another foot beyond the Wall. No more ranging. The dangers that will plague Westeros will appear here first and you won't be prepared for them, wandering about here."

Benjen gained a little life in his eyes and shook his head.

"I'm a ranger. We all accept that we may die beyond the Wall. It's common. I won't hide in Castle Black as they come closer."

Clark sighed. "I figured you'd say that."

He withdrew an obsidian knife from the bag. Benjen stepped back immediately, his hand on his sword. Clark rolled his eyes.

"Calm down, it's a gift." He turned the knife handle-first and held it out to Benjen.

"Carry this with you at all times. Especially when you go ranging. The White Walkers and their wights, their slaves, they won't fall to normal steel. This, fire and Valyrian steel are the only weapons worth carrying against them."

Benjen stepped forward gingerly and took the knife. He eyed it warily.

"There should be more coming to Castle Black. However, they probably won't come until the Night's Watch actually believes in the threat. Jeor Mormont is beginning to. As Maester Aemon might be, however they'll need to be more."

Clark tied the bag around the yew bow and propped it across his shoulder.

"Thank you for your help, Benjen Stark. I hope to see you again one day. Good luck in your rangings."

He held out his hand to shake. Benjen gripped it, though the look in his eye was still questioning. After looking to the stars and determining northwest, Clark gave a final nod before walking off into the trees.

A part of him wondered if he should have pushed Benjen to recognize that the Free Folk would need to be let through the Wall for the sake of all of their survival. Benjen certainly seemed more sympathetic than the average brother of the Night's Watch. However that seemed like overkill. He trusted Benjen to see the logic in helping the Free Folk as a preliminary strike against the White Walkers.

He still felt doubt, though the doubt was tempered as he looked back and saw Benjen sheathing the dragonglass in his belt, before returning to the sled and pulling it away, back to the Wall.

Turning back to the darkness of the Haunted Forest, he continued to walk. His eyes were attuned already, but he was already a little hungry. He cursed himself. He should have forced himself to eat more of that rubberized mystery meat during the feast.