Chapter 36

There was a noted tension when Tiresias proceeded to Lord Stark's solar the next day. The first time they spoke, his walk here was closely watched. A guard of four escorting him from the courtyard. As the years passed and he became a part of the castle, the guards relaxed at the door, exchanging nods with him as he passed.

Today, that guarded look was back. It wasn't adversarial. It wasn't even the same look he received from his Lannister escort to the Rock. It was simply…more suspicious, more probing. In their eyes, Tiresias was merely the librarian who left a little less than a year ago and he returned looking much the same.

The stories claimed he killed a monster…but he still looked the same…

Thankfully Tiresias didn't have to be alone with those looks. He was announced as soon as he approached. Lord Stark gave his permission and Tiresias entered his solar.

Having just returned from the midday meal himself, Ned wasn't in the middle of any work. The Lord of Winterfell simply sat, waiting for him. He gestured for Tiresias to sit, which he did, gratefully so.

There was no fire in the hearth to break the silence. He heard clinks outside from the forge though and a slight wind caressed the castle.

But no waves…gods, I miss the sea already.

He brought his mind back to Winterfell. Ned reached into his desk and pulled out a sealed letter, holding it up for Tiresias to see. It was his letter, the one he wrote before the duel in Deep Den. He regarded it, frowning slightly. It was so slim. He swore he had written more than that…

"Do I need to read this?" asked Lord Stark. "Now that you've returned?"

Tiresias shook his head. Without any hesitation, Ned put the letter to a lit candle. A moment of silence followed as they watched Tiresias' prophetic warnings burn. Lord Stark placed the flaming parchment on a metal plate and there it curled into ash.

He turned back to Ned, but the Lord of Winterfell was already looking to him.

"What you set out to achieve," Ned began. "I assumed from your message from White Harbor that you succeeded. Is that true?"

Tiresias nodded. "Ramsay's dead. I buried him myself. Deep in the Lonely Hills."

"Were there any witnesses?"

His pulse shot up, but he remained calm. He swallowed and shook his head.

"No…no, I saw to that."

Ned reached into his desk and pulled out a letter. He handed it to Tiresias. His eyes fell to the dried wax; pink, in the form of a flayed man.

"I wrote to Lord Bolton after I received your note," Lord Stark said as Tiresias unfolded the letter. "That was his response."

Tiresias scanned the letter quickly; a polite and concerned inquiry about the librarian's health and whereabouts, a measured outrage at bandits in his territory and a promise to deal with said bandits quickly and effectively.

There was also an appreciation for Lord Stark's concern over Ramsay. The search was still on, as of the writing of the letter.

"So…were there any bandits?"

Tiresias gave back the letter. "No. Lord Bolton suspects me. Don't know how it got started, but he does."

He leaned back in the chair and briefly recounted his bout with Bolton's hunters, the attempt at sabotage, the swim down the White Knife.

"After I killed the dogs, I decided to go east. Come back to Winterfell another way. S'how I ended up in White Harbor."

"How'd you know the man who approached you belonged to Lord Bolton?"

"I saw him in my vision." Tiresias shrugged. "Even without that, his scent was familiar. Smelled like the Dreadfort. And he was far too friendly to me."

He exhaled. "In any case, if whatever I did in the Dreadfort aroused Lord Bolton's suspicions, then me escaping his hunters and killing his hounds probably confirmed them. He's very sure that I had something to do with Ramsay's disappearance…and I don't know if he thinks that you're involved as well."

A line appeared in Ned's forehead. Tiresias bowed his head, a weight settling into his stomach.

"I'm sorry." He didn't have to say why.

A brief silence fell before Ned spoke.

"Is there any evidence that you killed Ramsay?"

Tiresias raised his head. "No."

"Did any of his hunters identify themselves as Bolton's men?"

"No."

Lord Stark regarded Bolton's letter before filing it away.

"He wrote and confirmed that it was bandits who pursued you. He's following your story. He can't condemn House Stark openly or rebel…so we'll handle anything else he tries. Sabotage, extortion…"

"Spies in Winterfell," suggested Tiresias. He swallowed. "Just a thought. Don't know how many new servants you've employed here in the last six months or so."

"I'll speak to Vayon Poole. Make an inquiry and tell him to be careful with any future hires in the castle. And you stay sharp as well. I don't believe Lord Bolton would use anyone you'd possibly recognize, but all the same, keep an eye out."

And my nose as well. The Dreadfort had a particular smell to it. And a feel that everyone seemed to carry. Even Maester Wolkan.

"So," said Lord Stark, leaning back. "May I ask now, what possessed you to sail to King's Landing?"

Tiresias sighed. "An oil merchant."

Ned's eyebrows rose. "An oil merchant?"

As he spoke of King's Landing, he kept to Gendry. He relayed his visit to the Street of Steel, Tobho Mott, his conversations with Varys, the stories he relayed with the spymaster. Lord Stark showed no surprise at the mention of Gendry's father. He supposed he read the note that went north with the rest of the Stark soldiers.

When he reached their departure from King's Landing, Ned unlocked a smaller drawer in the desk. He took out a wrapped object and began to unfurl it gently.

"Tell me, Tiresias," he said as he held up the Valyrian steel dagger. "Did you get this from the Street of Steel as well?"

Tiresias took a moment to gaze at it. He hadn't laid eyes on it in months. Not since the treasure room. It remained wrapped and hidden as he crept out of the Red Keep through the caves, stalking King's Landing in the early predawn. Not even in the safety of the Purple Rose did he gaze upon his prize.

Finally he shook his head. "Nah, I stole that."

"I know that." Ned took a moment and sighed. "You delivered to me a stolen treasure from the Crown."

"The Crown doesn't need Valyrian steel. The North does." Tiresias nodded towards the dagger. "Trust me. In the right hands…that blade could make all the difference."

"And whose hands were you planning to arm with stolen steel?"

Tiresias' mouth was too dry to swallow. "Working on that."

He didn't know how many non-answers he could get away with today. Even a conservative amount was pushing it. Ned's forehead lined deeper, but he placed the dagger down with a sigh.

"This will be hidden," Lord Stark said, wrapping it back up and putting it away. "I'll won't tell you where. If the day comes when you need this, for yourself or anyone else…you'll have to convince me."

There was no room for disagreement there. Tiresias nodded.

"Fair enough." He sighed. "And Gendry? Have you told him yet? Who he is?"

"Aye," said Lord Stark. "I told him soon after he arrived. He didn't ask me though. I was the one who summoned the lad. Sat him down there."

"How'd he take it?"

"Quietly. When I offered anything beyond a blacksmith apprenticeship and position; martial training, reading and writing lessons, he didn't respond. Told me he'd think on it…and I haven't spoken to him since."

Tiresias nodded. The lad seemed more comfortable in the forge than a lord's solar or a king's castle.

At least for now…we'll see if that changes.

"I'll speak to him myself later." He glanced at Ned. "What was Lady Stark's reaction? To another bastard residing in Winterfell?"

Ned's nostrils flared slightly. He answered calmly enough though.

"Nothing. Just another apprentice for Mikken. I haven't spoken to her about him. But there's no need as of now. While he considers his future. Besides, she doesn't scorn a bastard in the forge. If we only staffed servants from legitimate marriages, this castle couldn't run."

"I bet," Tiresias muttered. He wondered if Mal's parents were wed. She never said…

Focus, man. That's out of your hands now.

He snapped back to Ned, but the Lord of Winterfell was gazing silently at him. From the look in his eyes, he knew that they had come to it at last.

Ned took a breath. "What happened with Clegane?"

Tiresias knew he didn't mean the play-by-play of the duel. Jory had filled him in on that.

"I rode ahead of Clegane into the Westerlands. Jory and Gendry insisted on joining me. I had hoped to keep some distance between our parties. Be seen further down the Goldroad, so that when I doubled back and killed him...somehow...it would have been a mysterious assailant who fell Ser Gregor and I would have been miles away, according to witnesses.

"Now, that…that obviously didn't happened. I'm sure Jory told you what happened with the innkeeper and Lord Lydden, the duel and the Lannisters."

"I received your letter from Casterly Rock," said Ned, his eyes drifting again to his pile of letters. "Is there anything you couldn't put to quill?"

Tiresias briefly considered the new details of his backstory he told Tywin over dinner, but he shook his head.

"Not particularly. I was questioned, sure. But other than that, it was a relaxing month and a half. I was wined and dined. And then I transported eleven tomes of the Old Tongue back from their library, which is why I went there in the first place."

Ned raised his eyebrows. "Pardon?"

"It's the story that Lord Tywin demanded for his hospitality and my safe departure. I was not compelled to Casterly Rock against my will. I graciously accepted the Lannister escort and rode there to see to their library. To seek donations."

He scratched his ear. "Considering the value of those tomes, I think I got a steal. Anyway, that's the official story. The only one Tywin wants to hear."

Ned looked ready to object but thought better of it. He had to stay on course.

"Why did the Mountain have to die?"

Tiresias stared at him. "Aside from his general atrocities?"

"If you killed every Westerosi who has committed atrocities, you'd be busy the rest of your days," said Ned, containing his frustration as well as he could. "Jory had strict instructions to escort you back to Winterfell. His instructions were my command to you. You were to come north under guard."

"I saw an opportunity."

"For what?" asked Ned. "I don't believe we're halfway prepared for the White Walkers. You're still needed here. And you nearly got killed, fighting a man who has no bearing in Winterfell, at the Wall or anywhere else in the North!"

"I won."

"Aye and I'm grateful for that. But it still brings consequences. The south was content to forget us. Forget the North while we worked and prepared for what's coming. But you've brought their attention here to Winterfell. To my home. To my family. When you challenged Clegane. When you acted in my name in King's Landing…"

Ned paused and breathed. His voice remained low, but his eyes glanced to the door. The guards were still outside.

"I've received letters from Jon Arryn, asking me to account for your actions. Stannis Baratheon wrote me as well, inquiring me about the dragonglass trade, after years of contentment. And it's not just the south. My bannermen wrote me too, asking about you. You won't be able to hide away in the library shelves and my protection…I don't know what it's worth anymore. Killing the Mountain…that's something you can't walk back."

Tiresias braced himself, making sure there was no animosity in his tone.

"You killed Ser Arthur Dayne," he said. "One-on-one. So they say. And that man was more a legend than Clegane will ever be. You've managed to return here. Maintain some normalcy. As far as a Warden could maintain it."

"Howland Reed was the only witness to that," Ned responded. He scoffed lightly. "And you somehow. You slew Clegane in front of lords, soldiers, a Septon…there's no mystery to your victory."

He leaned forward.

"And you said it yourself, Tiresias. I am a Warden. There are few who can challenge me. I can return from a war and the whispers that follow me…they'll remain just that; whispers. But you…even with me behind you, there are many who would question your actions, try to test you. Could you train in private anymore? I'm sure the soldiers will want to test you. What about my bannermen? You can't hide away during the feasts anymore. Your absence will noticed."

Ned leaned back and sighed.

"I don't know how much I can shield you from that. I hadn't prepared for my librarian to return home a famous warrior."

He stopped and rubbed his brow, before dropping his hand.

"Tiresias…I'm relieved that you won. And I'm not saying that the Mountain didn't deserved to die. From how Jory described it, it was a noble act. But you chose to end Clegane in the most public manner possible. On a whim. And while doing so, you involved one of my most loyal men in a southern dispute along with a royal bastard you swore that we'd protect. You sacrificed your secrecy.

"So tell me, what was this opportunity you saw? How did it trump everything else?"

Tiresias glanced to his right arm. A memory of the break shot through and he suppressed a shudder.

"I don't know what kind of role the Mountain have played in this new world of ours," he stated softly. "But I believe the same thing would have happened. Too many people would lose their lives trying to kill that monster."

He sighed. "I think I also did it for the same reason I dealt with Ramsay. Ramsay can no longer be Roose's mad dog. And Gregor can no longer be Tywin's mad dog. I don't despise all Lannisters, but when it comes to Tywin…he was a strong adversary...against everyone. So I'll take every opportunity I have to whittle his power down."

"Clegane's death will not deter Tywin," Ned stated evenly. "He still has his armies, his gold and Casterly Rock."

Tiresias shrugged. "He does, but we shouldn't underestimate the power of a mascot. His armies may be substantial, but soldiers from opposing sides will find it easier to charge men their own size.

"As for the gold and Casterly Rock," he continued. "Well, those aren't as secure as he would have others believe."

Luckily Lord Stark wasn't interested in Tywin's holdings today. He saw Ned set aside that non-answer for another day. Tiresias nodded to the letters.

"What did Lord Stannis say? About the dragonglass?"

Ned handed him the letter from the iron-willed Baratheon. "He asked for a sample of what we've been trading to our hill tribes."

Tiresias peered at the neat scribble. "What did you send him?"

"An arrowhead. Light enough so the raven could fly with it."

Going through the letter, Tiresias didn't see anything nefarious. It was straight and to the point. Lord Stannis inquired about him, his victory over Clegane and then continued on to the dragonglass without so much a connecting sentiment.

Stannis ended the letter, stating that he was leaving for Dragonstone to see to his wife and daughter. And other matters, including the next shipment of dragonglass.

Tiresias looked up to Ned, who anticipated his question.

"The shipments continued according to schedule. We still send a light shipment to the Wall. As for us, in the crypts, I estimate we now have eighty thousand arrowheads, thirty thousand dagger blades, sixty thousand spearheads and five thousand axeheads."

"We need more." Tiresias placed the letter back, his fingers shaking slightly. "If he decides not to continue this trade, for whatever reason…"

"We'll handle it," Ned finished for him. There was no plan, just a simple affirmation to deal with it, should it arise.

The Lord of Winterfell stood and walked to the pitchers. "Ale?"

Tiresias shook his head. "I'm not thirsty."

After pouring himself a horn, Ned walked to the table, where the maps always laid open. Understanding the silent request, Tiresias stood and joined him.

"The harvests are the only thing that haven't been disrupted," Ned said. "Our original stores are now full. They'll last us five years. Perhaps six if we're careful. The Broken Stores now sit at two-thirds full capacity. And the imports from Reach begin in six months. Within two years, we should be full there as well. Then we'll start topping off the stores in every Northern hold we can."

"That's good news," Tiresias muttered. His fingers traced the Wall, coming to a rest at Castle Black. "Five years of food…you're not taking into account over one hundred thousand Free Folk coming south of the Wall, are you?"

Ned's mouth lined as he shook his head. "No."

Tiresias leaned over the table. "Well, it'll certainly make a dent. I don't suppose we can ask Maester Luwin for that calculation just yet."

"Benjen will meeting directly with Mance in a month."

He stared at Ned. "Does the Night's Watch know that?"

"Only a few. The Lord Commander and a few other chosen officers." Ned took a draught. "We'll wait until he comes back to move on to the wildings. He'll visit Winterfell after the parlay."

After he lowered his horn, he turned to Tiresias.

"Anything else to report?"

Tiresias shook his head. "No, my Lord. I should…I should get back to the library. I'll be working until late this evening to catch up on all I missed. And for many evenings after that…"

"You were gone for ten months." Ned walked to his desk and sat. "But you certainly didn't come back empty-handed."

Tiresias smiled grimly. "No, my Lord. Tomes, a king's bastard, stolen steel…eyes from the south."

"Eyes from all of Westeros, Tiresias."

And his smile was gone. He waited, but he didn't sense any accusation or animosity behind Ned's words. The Warden just seemed tired and worried.

Finally Lord Stark sighed and nodded. Tiresias sensed the dismissal, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. He stood rooted to the floor.

"What is it?" asked Lord Stark.

"There's actually one more thing," Tiresias muttered. He swallowed before continuing. "On the way back, going through the Neck…I got a message from Lord Reed."

"What did Howland say?"

"His son, Jojen…he's a greenseer as well. He and his father…they seem to believe that our timeline has been shortened."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that my actions have pushed things forward. Whether it's the White Walkers, the Free Folk and the Night's Watch, the war in the south…"

Again, he omitted Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons.

The dragons aren't born yet. There's no red comet in the sky…

"It will happen sooner than I anticipated. My vision, all that I've foreseen…it'll soon be useless. And then we'll be on our own."

Lord Stark looked to his desk, taking it in. Tiresias stood still, waiting. The wind was gone. He could no longer heard it singing against the castle walls.

Fortifying himself with a breath, Ned raised his head, meeting his eyes.

"Well, make use of it while you can."

He was fortunate in a way. Catching up on ten months of busy work gave him an excellent excuse not to move frivolously around the castle. He stayed in the library from breakfast to bedtime. He burned more candles in the first week than he usually did in a month.

It did take his mind off things. At many points, he forgot about not just Deep Den, but the Lonely Hills as well. He was merely the castle librarian again.

However, the work didn't completely insulate him. He still had to eat. It was easy for breakfast and the midway meal. If he arrived a little earlier, he could take his food up. However, during supper, he ate in the Great Hall with everyone else.

Barth was reliably silent and so Tiresias gravitated toward him most evenings for a dinner partner. However, the brewer seemed close to inquiring about his exploits. His pauses in-between bites were more substantial.

And murmurs followed him still. Every evening, a couple of house guards or soldiers would join him and Barth, inquiring about his story. Tiresias kept to the facts and spoke succinctly. A few soldiers got the hint and shut up about it. Most others didn't.

Gord came to his rescue one evening. As Tiresias trudged toward dinner, he heard the big man coming up behind him. A large arm wrapped around his shoulder and steered him away from the Great Hall.

"Hello, Gord," asked Tiresias, not peeved at this development. "Where are we going?"

"My home," said Gord, eyes ahead. "Ginn made too much stew for three, so you'll be joining me, her and me mum for supper."

A relieved sigh escaped Tiresias before he could help it.

"Thank you," he said softly.

Gord clapped his shoulder. "Forget it. We never had you over before."

Twenty minutes later, Tiresias was handed a bowl of venison stew and a chunk of seed-bread, with only three pairs of friendly eyes for company. Instead of hundreds of curious ones.

He sat next to Gord's mother, who sat nearest to the fire. She and Ginn tried to get him to sit there but he refused. Gord backed him up, citing his comfort with the cold. Ginn was amiable as she ever was. She greeted him warmly upon his return. She had questions too, like everyone else in Winterfell. But she concealed them well.

Conversation at their table flowed smoothly enough. And it was only when their bowls were empty that Ginn, leaning against Gord, addressed the lurking subject at hand.

"You talked to Mal, didn't you?" asked Ginn softly.

The fire crackled. Tiresias swallowed and nodded.

"First night I returned. She was…" He exhaled through his nose. "She was quite angry with me."

Keeping locked away in the library gave him limited glimpses of her. Whenever he did see her, he heard no whispers from her and met no stares. She ignored him as he walked by and focused on her work. A part of him felt her glancing to him once he passed. But it was probably his imagination.

She kept her brown eyes away from him.

"Aye," said Ginn, nodding. She shrugged. "We were angry with you too, you know."

"Worried's more like, dear," said Gord.

"Aye, we can be worried and angry all at the same time." Ginn sighed. "Tiresias…when you didn't come back with Gord and the next thing we heard was…well, it was that. You, the Mountain…it was unbelievable and Mal…it wasn't something she was prepared for. She's strong, but she needs to prepare for it. And having naught but rumors trickle in from the south…until Jory came home, we didn't know for sure what had happened. Were you hurt? Were you tied and dragged west by the Lannisters? Did you volunteer to marry the poor girl to save her reputation? We didn't know. We doubted much of it, but we didn't know and it worried us. It worried her. It was nothing she expected from you."

Tiresias rested his hand on his cup, staring into it. No one spoke for a bit.

"Have I botched it?" he asked quietly. "I meant to be back. I truly did…but I couldn't keep my word."

He raised his eyes and looked at Ginn and Gord. "What'd you think?"

"What was her answer? The night you returned?"

Tiresias turned to his side. The question came from Gord's mother.

Tara, he told himself. She has a name. It's Tara.

"She didn't answer. We talked…she yelled at me, but when it calmed and I said what I needed to say, she didn't say yes or no. Just walked off."

Tara turned to Gord and Ginn.

"That time when you lot knew nothin' and it was confusing and frightening…if she didn't want to fight for him, she would've thrown him away. Right when he walked through them gates. Would've said no."

She turned back to him.

"She hadn't said it." Tara shrugged. "Hadn't said aye, either. I haven't seen her much. Saw her at the wedding with you. You two dance well together. And you have the same look about you."

"What'd you mean?" asked Tiresias softly.

Tara looked at him directly. "You think things through. Mostly. Seems like that's what she's doin' now. Muddling through all she learned 'bout you. But she hadn't said no. She hadn't said no."

With that, Tara raised her cup and drank. Tiresias lowered his eyes again, his fingers idling about his own cup.

Ginn cleared her throat and patted Gord's arm. "Love, why don't you go and take Tiresias to the tavern? Have a bit of a nightcap?"

Gord squeezed her gently. "Only a bit?"

She smiled, scratching his beard. "Aye, only a bit."

"All right, then. So m'lady commands." Gord stood and stretched. "C'mon then, mate. To a tempered evening out."

Tiresias almost excused himself, but stood to join him. The library would wait for a night and he really wanted a drink. Thanking Ginn for the lovely dinner, he followed Gord out into Wintertown.

The tavern didn't provide nearly as many curious eyes as there were in Winterfell. Tiresias did feel a few stray to him as they entered. But it wasn't overwhelming. Gord and Tiresias took an end of a table and soon they were clinking full mugs.

"So," Tiresias said, wiping his mouth. "When can we start sparring again?"

Gord raised his eyebrows. "You still wanna do that?"

"Aye, I do. What? Just because I killed one tall bastard doesn't mean I'll won't go after another."

"That's funny." Gord lowered his tankard, looking somewhat serious.

"What?"

"It'll be different, you know," Gord muttered. He leaned forward. "I know you, mate…somewhat. Well, I do know you hate crowds, onlookers…our bouts, if we do them again…it won't be like before. You're gonna draw a crowd. House guards, soldiers, servants, the Stark children…they'll want to see how you killed the Mountain."

Tiresias breathed through his nose. Gord voiced something he'd been fearing ever since he rode from Casterly Rock. His training…it wasn't a spectacle. Not something to be admired. It was just something he needed to do.

You still need to do it. They're coming and they're coming quick. Whatever happens, you must be stronger. Is that necessity less important than your discomfort with an audience?

He looked to Gord and shrugged.

"So be it."

Gord raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"I won't call attention to it if you won't…but I do need to train." He scoffed. "Need to prepare for every shitheel who wants to test me. See if I really killed the Mountain."

His nostrils caught an unwelcomed and familiar scent staggering toward them. Gord saw him too, his eyes drifting over his shoulder.

"Speaking of which..." he muttered.

A hand clapped Tiresias on the back.

"Tiresias!" cheered Tadd loudly as he sat down next to him.

"Hello Tadd," said Gord amiably enough. His smile didn't extend to his eyes.

"Hey there, Gord!" Tadd placed his arm around his shoulder, laughing. Tiresias tried not to wince at his breath.

"I gotta say," he slurred. "I knew it! I knew yeh weren't some…some fuckin' pansy cocksucker just mincin' about. Yeh sneaky shit, yeh…"

"Tadd," Gord said gently, still wearing a smile. "Be a good lad. Piss off, all right?"

Tadd blinked, staring at him, before laughing.

"Oh come on, now," He shook Tiresias' shoulder. "He knows I'm japin'. We've done this, right? Fuckin' just…"

"Tadd…" Gord lost his smile.

"Don't tell me to piss off!" Tadd pointed a finger. "Don't! It's all right, right? Tiresias, ye top cunt, tell us it's all right!"

"Tadd," Tiresias said softly. "I told you before to never to touch me again. I haven't changed my mind on that. So take your hand off me. And piss off."

He took a draught, waiting.

But Tadd didn't remove his hand.

"Yeh know," Tadd mumbled, bringing his face closer than ever. "When yeh fought him, the Mountain…I 'eard…yeh cried at the end…like a fuckin' wench. A bitch."

Tiresias shook his head slightly at Gord, who looked ready to grab Tadd. He breathed, trying not to smell his drunken neighbor.

"Not immune to pain, Tadd," he said, plastering on a small smile. "Don't suppose I'm much of a man."

"Nah," Tadd muttered. "Yeh not, right? 'Cause I 'eard other things too, yeh know. Before yeh left…"

He took a draught before continuing.

"Whores talk, yeh know. They see things…" He grinned. "All sorts of…things. Big things, small things, thick things, knobby things…yeh know what I mean?"

"Not really, Tadd. You're a bit too subtle for me," said Tiresias, his eyes straight ahead.

"'Nother whore…not that fat one yeh liked. 'Nother. Walked in. Saw ye thing, mate and…and…some of it's gone!"

Tadd devolved into laughter, clasping his shoulder for support. Tiresias just focused on his breathing. He heard Gord clench his jaw. The lone laughter continued for a solid ten seconds, before Tadd refocused.

"Wot? Yeh didn't hear me? Said it's gone!"

"Funny joke," said Tiresias. He didn't think it possible for two words to sound so sardonic.

"Aye, well, see…I don't think it's a joke…mate." Tadd's fingers dug into his shoulder. "Yeh cry like a bitch. Yeh missing ye cock. Yeh a woman. And a woman…didn't kill the Mountain. Just a story. Yeh surrounded by stories up in that tower…it's all yeh know…"

He took another draught, ale trickling into his beard. "Does Mal know...that yeh a bitch?"

"Tadd…" growled Gord.

"If she does…wot d'yeh two do, then? When yeh alone." Tadd continued, coming even closer. "D'yeh…what? Lick her cunt while she lick yours…"

Tiresias brought his left arm up quickly, pushing off Tadd's grip. Reaching over, he grabbed Tadd's hair and slammed his head down to the table, standing up over him. Tadd wriggled and tried to get free, but his right hand was pinned behind him.

Red flashed in his eyes. He twisted Tadd's head, grinding his face into the table. Enraged moans escaped the man…

"What is this?! Enough!"

He turned to see Ser Rodrik coming toward them. Realizing he'd forgotten to breathe, he inhaled as the Master of Arms came to a halt before them.

"Tiresias, release him! Immediately!"

Tiresias did so, not stepping away as Tadd pressed himself up from the table. The man glanced at Ser Rodrik, before gazing to the floor.

Ser Rodrik looked to the three of them. "What's the meaning of this?"

Tiresias didn't trust himself to speak. He didn't want to. He just breathed. The red he saw pulsed slower and slower.

Tadd raised his head and shrugged. "Just a…just a discussion…got outta hand."

Ser Rodrik looked to Tiresias. "Is that true?"

He couldn't answer. He didn't want to confirm this shitheap's excuse, but he also didn't want to justify his urge to pound Tadd into pulp...

No…no, I don't want that. I can't feed that.

"No," Gord spoke. All turned to him as he cleared his throat. He was trying to calm himself too.

"Tiresias and I were drinking by ourselves when Tadd came and sat himself down. He ignored our request to leave. He insulted Tiresias and...a good friend of his."

Good friend…is that what she is now, Gord?

"That's when he put Tadd to the table, Ser Rodrik."

Tadd turned to glare at Gord, but Gord didn't even flinch. Tiresias heard his pulse. It was slowing to a steady beat.

Ser Rodrik turned to Tadd.

"You're too drunk to hear me now. But you'll be dealing with your punishment on the morrow during the drills, mark my words. This isn't your first drunken bout, Tadd. There weren't tolerated and this won't be any different. I'll make sure you understand that. One way or another.

"And you," he said, turning to Tiresias. "You're no soldier and it's not in your best interest to start brawling with them. Spars in the training yard are one thing. But not this. If you have a problem with a soldier of Winterfell, you bring it to Jory or me. Understand?"

Tiresias swallowed a protest and nodded. He just wanted this to be done.

"All right," said Ser Rodrik, stepping between them. "The two of you. Shake hands and go your separate ways. Now."

Tadd scoffed, but under the glare from Ser Rodrik, he slowly stuck his hand out. Ser Rodrik turned to him.

"Shake, Tiresias."

Tiresias stepped forward, hand out. As Tadd went to grasp it, he reached up and embraced Tadd fiercely, holding him tight. The man didn't struggle. He seemed shocked. He allowed Tiresias to grab his head, turning his ear to him.

"You," Tiresias said in a hoarse whisper, speaking into his ear. "You…have…nothing."

He spoke slowly, enunciating every word, making sure Tadd's inebriated brain held onto them.

"You…are…nothing."

With that, he let go immediately. Tadd stared at him confused, before Ser Rodrik grabbed his shoulder.

"All right, leave. Now!" he said.

Tiresias' eyes were on the floor, but he heard Tadd stalk away. When he raised his head, Ser Rodrik was still there, meeting his gaze pensively.

He couldn't help a light scoff. "Not a soldier, aye? Not even after felling the Mountain?"

"A quick dagger doesn't make a man a soldier," Ser Rodrik answered evenly. "A soldier follows. You're too much of a lone wolf."

He turned to the serving maid, who was hovering about nervously. "Lass, bring me a horn, aye?"

She nodded and scurried off. He turned back to Tiresias.

"Doesn't mean you're no fighter, though. A smart, brave and able warrior." He shrugged. "So says my nephew. Gave him quite the spectacle, didn't you?"

"Wasn't my intention," Tiresias said quietly. "To make a spectacle."

Ser Rodrik smiled grimly. The serving maid returned with his horn.

"Whatever your intention, you acted well. Foolishly, but well. And you did a great deed, riding the Kingdoms of that abomination."

He raised his drink, nodding to Tiresias' mug. "Join me for a toast? You as well, Gord."

Tiresias heard Gord pick up his mug. He absent-mindedly fetched his own and raised it, meeting the knight's eyes.

"To Tiresias," stated Ser Rodrik. "The librarian who downed the Mountain."

"Tiresias!"

He blinked. It wasn't just Gord who answered the toast. Others, who had witnessed the scuffle, had their eyes and ears on Ser Rodrik as he made the toast. A dozen other voices from the nearby tables echoed his name.

Remembering that he had to drink, he tipped his tankard up and finished his ale. He placed it upside down on the table, as did Ser Rodrik. The old knight nodded as he pivoted.

"Have a good evening, men," he said before walking away.

He stood dazed, barely registering Gord as he came behind and slung his arm over his shoulder.

"Won't be the last toast you hear, mate. I promise you that."

"Don't remind me," said Tiresias dully.

Gord sighed before clapping his shoulder. "We should leave, aye? Think that counts as a bit of a nightcap."

A lethargy almost consumed him as he walked with Gord back through Wintertown. It wasn't the toast though that slowed him. It was the scuffle that kept going through his head. The energy was still there. It had to get out or it would curdle.

He couldn't just go to bed tonight. He had put it off long enough.

They walked past Gord's hut and his friend left him to wander back to the castle. There were no goodnights exchanged. It wasn't that sort of evening.

The guard let him through with barely a glance. A marked improvement. In fact, at this moment, everyone in the castle was indoors and it made for a peaceful, cold summer evening. With no murmurs to follow him to the back of the stables.

The construction on the Broken Stores was completed long ago. It should be available…

And it was. His little gym that he constructed years ago. A little dusty but it stood still and ready, not being disturbed. He wondered whether it was just because the space was still unused.

Or had they been saving it for me?

It didn't matter though. Despite his current modest inebriation, he was still able to exercise. He had to start again somewhere. He stripped off his shirt and began to stretch, playing close attention to his right arm.

No sense in breaking you again, aye? Just when I got you back. You were grand when you rubbed Tadd's face in the table.

He cursed the thought immediately.

Don't do that. Don't indulge in that shit! Focus on your body. Focus on the White Walkers and any others you'll face. Tadd is nothing, remember? Don't lose yourself in nothing!

After he stretched, he centered himself, breathing calmly. He gazed up. The frame he gripped for pull-ups was there still, the woods worn smooth from his grip.

Bending his knees, he leapt and grabbed it, holding himself steady in the air. He allowed a few seconds to simply hang, feeling the familiar stretch down his back. Finally he breathed and pulled himself up.

One…two…three…

Gord spoke truly. They met as dinner began, hoping that the training yard would be empty of soldiers, with the day's exercises complete. Most of the castle inhabitants were inside, but quite a few weren't. No fewer than four soldiers lingered about the courtyard, forgetting their dinner.

Ignoring the onlookers, they wandered over to the far corner of the yard. They stretched and sparred, trying to keep to themselves. Gord did a better job than he did. His blocks came late and his swings were erratic. His feet felt like stone.

Finally, Gord lowered his sword, stopping the spar. He came up and placed his hand on Tiresias' shoulder.

"You fought for your life and won with southern eyes watchin' you, mate," he muttered. "Now what? You can't bloody spar under the gaze of these fuckers?"

Tiresias snorted. Gord clapped him on the shoulder and stepped back.

"C'mon, then. Dance, ye skinny fuck."

They sparred more easily after that, with renewed focus. Still, Tiresias marked every newcomer to their audience. And when he and Gord finally lowered their swords, the few soldiers that lingered had swelled to a dozen.

The next spar began with a dozen spectators. The third fifteen and the fourth twenty-three. It seemed to cap there. Gord and he never shouted their intentions or advertised, but their absence in the Great Hall probably was a good indicator to all concerned, that their mysterious librarian was exercising.

Maybe that was why the Stark children never showed. They weren't excused to watch Tiresias play with a sword. For that, he was grateful. His interactions with the Stark children were limited to the library, where he occasionally caught one of them looking back during their lessons. Though that only lasted for two days, before his presence became normal again.

However, during the fourth bout when he lost track of time, he lowered his spear to see Theon, Robb and Jon along the sides as well. All slightly out of breath, they had run to catch a spar on the tailend of dinner. Gord gave him a look and Tiresias shrugged. They went for two additional bouts that evening, ignoring the young eyes watching them.

At this rate, a month passed since his return. By returning to sparring sooner than he intended, he extended the expected end date of his excess workload from the intended fortnight, but he was glad for it. The crowds dissipated soon enough and at the month's end, Gord and him sparred more or less in peace. With him exercising on his own every other night, he felt his body begin to return to him.

He started to spar with Jon and Arya again as well. Joining them in the godswood once a week, out of Lady Catelyn and Septa Mordane's sight. The Septa greeted Tiresias politely. However, both of them understood they would be happier if they avoided each other. At any rate, at least Arya and Jon were glad to have him back.

However Arya looked quite disappointed after their first bout.

Tiresias lowered his practice sword. "What?"

"You're taking it easy on me," said Arya, her gray eyes accusing him. "You beat the Mountain. I know you can move quicker."

He knelt before her. "Arya, you're not going to improve if I just beat the shit out of you. I could just move as swiftly as possible, but you won't learn anything that way. You have to progress. Move up to quicker opponents."

Arya didn't back down. "I don't care if you beat the shit out of me. If I fight you, I'll get quicker. I know I will."

Tiresias glanced at Jon, who was trying not to laugh. He sighed.

"I'll make you a deal, Arya. You come here next time with pads. One bout at the end…I'll use my speed…"

He raised his practice sword. "But I won't be using this, but something light and hollow. We'll build your agility, but I'll not risk you getting hurt. Deal?"

Arya considered it and nodded. Tiresias stood, moving back.

"All right, then. Why don't you two fight for a bit? Give me a breather."

Settling on the roots of the weirwood, he observed the spar for a bit. Jon was fighting a bit harder than he usually did. He supposed that he took Arya's request to heart as well.

However, the girl didn't seem to mind. Even in the encroaching darkness, her smile was prominent as she moved to avoid her brother's sword.

Cousin's sword. Jon is her cousin.

Tiresias took a draught from his waterskin, bemused at his mistake.

It's not a mistake though. For all intents and purposes, for how much they love each, they are brother and sister. Her mind won't be changed by the truth. You saw it yourself.

When was the time for the truth, though? Tiresias didn't know. He wouldn't tell Jon without first warning Ned. They'd probably do it together at some point.

Or he would do it himself. You're not family, mate.

Tiresias gazed up at the weirwood face. The sounds of the spar seemed to fade as he stared into his weeping eyes.

How about it, Raven? Don't know how you're adjusting to all this, but you seemed to have some say when Jon learned last time. Do you have a preference now?

Naught but the wind answered him. Tiresias snorted lightly and turned back to the spar.

If you could say so without making me sick again, I'd appreciate it.

His ongoing attempts to catch up with his work caused him many late evenings when he wasn't training. He often walked back to his room in total darkness, his eyes more than able to see at night without a candle. Even without his eyes, he knew the castle well enough by now. He could walk back to his room with his eyes closed. He did it once.

A warm feeling blossomed in him when he did. He hadn't forgotten this place, even after a ten-months' absence.

Tonight, he allowed himself to see as he walked, massaging his hand. It had been many months since he had written so much in such a short time. He certainly didn't feel like doing more at the end of the day. He hadn't added to his collection of songs since he returned to Winterfell.

However, with over a month passed since his return, there was one itch that refused to go away tonight.

Lighting a candle, he ignored his bed and sat at his desk. He set the candle down and pulled out a clean short roll of parchment. Rolling up his sleeve, he dipped his quill in the inkwell and began to write.

Lord Tyrion,

I've arrived safe and whole at Winterfell. I hope your journey to King's Landing was just as unadventurous and that you're enjoying your new home in the Red Keep. I didn't have much of a chance to explore the library there, so I hope you will take what advantage I couldn't.

I'm glad to be home again, in my own library. Well, the library I'm curating at any rate. It's easy to lose myself in the shelves and forget that I have a different reputation now. Stares and whispers followed me throughout the Westerlands like a stench, tracking me all the way to Winterfell. Though I suppose I'm fortunate that's all that followed me.

It bothers me though and in between my work, I sometimes dream how to rid myself of this stench, this notoriety I gained at Deep Den. To merely be a librarian again. In order to supplant that notoriety for another, I would probably have to gather every tome in the world, build a library as big as Harrenhal and never raise my dagger again.

That will not happen. Not because that scheme is impossible. Even if it wasn't, I know that however big that library grows, the Mountain's shadow will always overtake it.

I believe it's a simple matter of values in this world. From I've witnessed, it seems that people don't value stories as much as killers. It saddens me. I never wanted a reputation in this country. Or anywhere. But if I were to have gained any fame, I had hoped it would be for my work here in the Winterfell. It would have been a victory for the still and considered people of this world, who too often get sidelined by the commotion of those who are loud, violent and reactionary.

I'm running out of room, so I'll save more for the next raven. I promise not to be so dour next time. Good health to you and your family. Especially your beloved sister and first nephew.

Cheers, Tiresias

He paused for a moment, before lowering his quill again.

Postscript – I hope you fare well too, Varys.

He wondered if that the spymaster would actually read Tyrion's personal correspondence. At any rate, he'd probably be interested in any correspondence coming from the librarian he sold Gendry to. Who only a month later killed the Mountain.

Massaging his hand again, he stood and blew out the candle. He'll let the ink dry and read it again in the morning. When his mind was clear from sleep. He didn't mind putting to words his annoyance at his new reputation as a warrior. He didn't care if that got out.

But still…perhaps future letters should be more light-hearted. And there will be more. As much as he wanted to focus on the North, he needed to build contacts in the south. Tyrion wasn't powerful at court now, but one day…who knew? If the south erupted into war again, Tywin could recognize his son's talents and grant him power.

If that happens, it would be good to have his ear. Tyrion responds well to a little emotional honesty. It's a little risky, but it could pay off.

Plus, Tiresias thought as he got into bed, I like having a pen pal.

He ended up sending the raven the next day with no alterations before breakfast. It was unnecessary, but he stood at the window, watching the raven fly south until it disappeared. Which took longer than he intended.

When he finally came down for breakfast, it was at the tail end. Ginn walked by, carrying a tray.

"Morning, Ginn."

She started a bit, seeing him, but recovered with a brisk smile. "G'morning, Tiresias. How'd you fare?"

"Well enough." He stared at her. Her eyes were a little too wide, her voice pitched slightly higher. "You all right?"

"Aye, aye, I'm fine," she said, still smiling. "You're sparring with Gord tonight, aye?"

"That's the plan."

"Well, he'll be busy until an hour past dinner. That all right?"

He nodded. "All right."

"Great," she said. "Great…he's looking forward to it. You'll be there?"

"Aye…" Tiresias muttered. He tried to place the look on her face. Was she excited? What for?

"Ginn, what's going on?"

"Nothing," she said lightly. "G'day, Tiresias."

She strolled off quickly, shielding her face from his bewildered stare.

Arriving late for breakfast meant burnt bacon and little butter for the bread. Tiresias didn't mind. He wolfed down his food, trying to clear his mind, trying not to be curious. He had to focus. If he buckled down, he could finish the last of the inquiries from the western coast before supper and be caught up with all his work.

"Good morning, Tiresias."

He turned with bread in his mouth to see Sansa Stark before him. Her hands were behind her. Septa Mordane stood next to her, a civil smile to go with Sansa's genuine one.

Swallowing as quickly and politely as he could, he nodded.

"Good morning, Lady Sansa. How are you today?"

"I am well. Thank you for asking."

Knowing not to do so would be potentially unwise, Tiresias nodded to her caretaker as well.

"Septa. Good morning."

She gave a polite nod back. "Good morning, Tiresias. Lady Sansa has something she wishes to give you."

"Oh?" He turned back to Sansa, who brought her hand forward. Folded neatly was the armband she took back the night he returned. The stitches were mended beautifully, the direwolf head as strong as it was when he set out to the Lonely Hills.

And encompassing the direwolf were six blue winter roses of various sizes. Tiresias wiped his hands free of bacon grease before he took the cloth. His fingers traced the roses gently.

"Six roses…" he murmured, before looking up to Sansa. He switched to the Old Tongue. "One blue rose for each Stark child?"

Sansa nodded. "Aye."

"What did you say, Tiresias?" asked Septa Mordane, still polite, but frowning.

Tiresias turned to her. "Forgive me, Septa. I said, 'Six blue roses. One for each of the Stark children…'

He looked at Sansa, grinning. "And one for me."

Septa Mordane bent over, peering at the armband. Sansa shot him a sly smile. Finally the Septa straightened and cleared her throat.

"I see," she said. "That's very thoughtful of you, Lady Sansa."

Tiresias stood, placing the armband in his pocket and grabbing the rest of his bacon.

"It is indeed. Thank you, my Lady. I'll wear it proudly when I next ride from Winterfell. See you later in the library. Septa."

He exited quickly, before any mockery overtook his smile. It was easier to be polite with the Septa. And in all fairness, Septa Mordane seemed determined to be polite as well.

Well, bigots can be polite. In fact, they often are.

Trudging up the stairs and along the corridor to the library tower, Tiresias sighed before chewing the rest of his bacon. His eyes drifted to the window as he swallowed and what he saw caused him to immediately halt.

He stepped to the glass to make sure he was seeing correctly. Bran was stepping along the battlements. It wasn't the nimble surety that he displayed when King Robert arrived, but there was a fearlessness there. Whether it was his age or natural skill, he seemed at ease with a sharp drop next to him.

A growing group of house guards were beginning to follow him from the ground. Tiresias sighed and continued. It was fair to assume that Bran would be late this morning and scolded by Catelyn this evening.

You won't fall from the Broken Tower this time…so will it be elsewhere? Will the dreams come then? Or will they come before? If we're truly on a shortened timeline here…

The only person that would come to him, should Bran begin to dream of the Three-Eyed Raven, was Lord Stark. With no word from the man, Tiresias assumed that the boy dreamt normal dreams and no whispers in his sleep propelled him beyond the Wall.

The rest of the day passed quickly. Tiresias kept to the library and before dinner, he filed away an inquiry from Flint's Finger, finishing the last backed-up item from his absence. Tomorrow he could have a relatively normal day as the Winterfell librarian.

Only took me over a month…

But it was done. He breathed easier as he blew out the candles and exited the library. He'd have an hour to kill before meeting Gord.

No, no, after dinner. Ginn said so. Rather strangely too…

After a fruitless minute contemplating Ginn's behavior, he put it out of his mind. It wasn't his business. Probably wasn't even about him. Or his spar. She had no part of those in the past. She had her own life, her own worries.

Believe it or not, mate, not everything revolves around you.

Tiresias snorted and turned for the main gates. Bran inspired him this morning. He glanced at his hands, flexing them. He hadn't climbed in a while. It would to do to exercise that little gift. He wished there was snow though, to cushion any falls. There would be no scaling to the top this early evening. Just mere bouldering.

That's all right. Builds muscle as well. Besides…you don't want Bran's fate, do you?

He walked along the walls, trying to find a spot.

Won't share his fate though…feel safe saying I won't be opening a third eye in my lifetime.

Taking a few minutes to stretch, he reached up and began to climb.

He took care though. Whether it was luck or pre-ordained, he was already gifted by some entity when he woke up in Westeros. The chances of the Three-Eyed Raven passing along his gifts to him as well if he were crippled were slim-to-none.

Tiresias stared at Gord. He had been feigning nonchalance the whole evening but as they wound down their exercise and began their final spar, the cracks began to show. It wasn't even the exercise that wore him down. He could hear the man's shortened breath, racing heartbeat, his eyes straying to the castle whenever he thought Tiresias wasn't looking.

He was like Ginn this morning. Tiresias noticed it right from the start, peering at him.

"You all right?" he asked multiple times.

And Gord would nod every time. "Aye, aye," he said, his eyes always flickering toward the keep. Then he would shake his head and tighten his grip on his sword.

"Another?"

They did continue but for whatever reason, Gord's head just wasn't in the training yard. Tiresias tried to stop, however whenever he suggested adjourning the exercise, Gord rejected it.

"I'm fine, mate! I'm fine. Just a few more, aye?"

The few more spars had turned into several and it was another hour before Gord relented, finally calling it quits for the night. They put their swords away. Gord was quiet, his usual jovial teasing absent.

Tiresias ignored it, putting it down to an off evening.

"G'night, Gord," he said, striding away.

"Mate," Gord called behind him. He turned back to see Gord, shuffling his right foot, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Aye?"

"You going to the springs?"

He nodded. "Aye…I always bathe after we spar."

"You should…umm…" Gord flexed his fingers. Tiresias heard his heart racing. "You should go to your room."

"What?"

"Go to your room. Forget the springs for tonight and just…go there. To your room."

Tiresias stared at Gord. "Why?"

There was no answer, though Gord finally raised his eyes to meet his.

A small laugh escaped him. He couldn't help it. "Gord, what's going on?"

"I don't know, mate." He cleared his throat. "It's only what I was told to tell you."

"Who told you?"

Gord grabbed his furs, draping them over his shoulders. He walked over to Tiresias, stopping before him.

"You trust me, mate?"

Tiresias nodded. "Aye."

"Well, all right, then." He patted him on the shoulder. "Til next time, then."

With that, Gord proceeded to the west gate, toward Wintertown, walking a bit more quickly than usual. Tiresias stared after him even when he disappeared.

The hell you on about, Gord?

He turned his gaze toward the castle, wondering what could possibly be in his room that would negate a wash after exercise. His mind went to ridiculous places, imagining dangers and traps springing on him once he opened his door.

The thought inspired a low chuckle from him. He trusted Gord. Whatever was waiting in his room wouldn't endanger him. But the caution didn't disappear. He didn't like mysteries. Not in this world.

With an brisk exhale, he left the training yard. Whatever it was, he could deal with it promptly and then head to the springs. Wash off the remnants of his spar.

He stalked slowly through the castle to his room. It was unnecessary, but he couldn't help it. He wished Gord was a bit more forthcoming, hadn't picked this evening to play coy.

Finally he stood in front of his door. Steeling himself, he reached for the knob.

He froze and sniffed, his ears sharpening. The hearth was lit. He could smell the fire. He could also hear the blaze and someone moving about inside. He tried to identify the scent, but it was masked by the door and the smoke.

Whoever it was, they weren't sneaking about, but moving freely. Not worried about being caught.

Taking a breath, he opened the door and entered.

A woman crouched before the hearth, framed by the blaze. She didn't jump or turn around when he entered, but continued to feed the flames. Tiresias didn't need her to turn around though. He recognized her from behind…

After a few more seconds, she stood up and turned. She had lit the other candles in the room, which illuminated her face, the little flames reflected in her brown eyes.

Tiresias remained by the door; his hand frozen on the knob.

"Mal?" he said softly.

She didn't say anything, but her eyes went to the door. Understanding immediately, he closed it. It seemed to creak more than usual.

He faced the door for a second more, bracing himself before turning back. His pulse was beginning to race.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to help you," she answered, as quietly as him.

"Help me what?"

Her eyes went down and he followed them. There was a low washing tub in front of the fire. He hadn't noticed it. Pitchers stood next to the fire. Steam arose from a few of them.

Tiresias looked back up. Her eyes were already back on him. He tried to speak, but he didn't know what to say. His mind was numb.

But he could still hear. Despite her composed face, Mal's heart was beating quickly too. And her smell…it was different now. Like it was when they spoke outside of the kitchens near a year ago…

When she spoke though, her voice was still calm and quiet.

"Lock the door."

The soft command entered his head slowly and so he hesitated before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the key. He turned back to the door, finding comfort there, staring at it. She was too much. He tried to calm himself, the breathing exercise from Clark's mother…

No, mate, no…you don't want his mother anywhere near this…

He locked the door. A beat later, he went to the bedside table and placed the key on top. It seemed heavy as he set it down. His fingers shook.

Tiresias turned back to Mal. She regarded him, hiding her quickened breath and racing heart with more success than him.

Without taking her eyes off him, she reached down to her wrists and unbuttoned the cuffs. She rolled the sleeves up, tucking them in firmly, before folding her hands in front of her.

Tiresias tried to think. Had he ever seen her forearms before? Whenever she served, whenever she stitched and sewed, had he ever seen them…

"Undress."

This command was quieter than the first. He heard her fortifying breath beforehand, but her brown eyes showed no embarrassment and her low voice was certain.

The wind was quiet tonight. It didn't billow against the castle. There was no respite, nothing to cover the crackle of the fire, his racing heart…

He sat down on the bed and began to unbuckle his boots. He turned his eyes on the straps, but he still felt her gaze upon him. Once he pulled the boots off, he stood, eyes on the wall as he removed his belt. He laid it on the bed gently behind him.

When the shirt came off, he did the same, folding it out of sheer habit before placing it down. He unbuttoned his trousers, trying not to hesitate, trying not to hurry.

He stared determinedly at the wall through all of this. As his fingers clasped the drawstring in his braies, he breathed and turned back to Mal, still regarding him silently. His undergarment did nothing to conceal his erection.

Her expression didn't change though. She didn't even look down. Her eyes still met his.

Exhaling through his nose, he pulled the drawstring loose and lowered his braies, stepping out of them. He folded them on the bed and faced her. It was an effort to keep his hands to his sides.

Mal's eyes washed over him along with the heat from the flames. It was only a quick glance though and she met his eyes again.

He heard her swallow before speaking. "Get in."

Tiresias focused his gaze on the tub before stepping forward. Feeling was not distributed evenly throughout his body. His feet felt numb, but his fingers trembled slightly. He hadn't trembled like this in years…

The round tub was only a foot tall. Once he stepped over, Mal turned and picked up a pitcher by the fire. Steam rose from the opening.

He squatted in the center and closed his eyes. In his darkness, he heard Mal step behind him and warm water draped across his back and shoulders, on top of his head, wetting his hair. The tension seeped from him. Exhaling, he wiped the water from his face and opened his eyes.

Mal placed the pitcher back, next to the fire. When she turned back, he saw a block of soap in her hands. She came to the tub, crouching down by his side and dipped the soap in the tub. Once it was wetted, she took out a cloth and wetted that too, rubbing the soap and the cloth together.

Tiresias gazed at her as she worked. She kept her eyes down though, on her hands. However when he looked away, gazing to the fire, he swore her eyes flickered up at him.

And he could still hear her own heart racing, despite her calm, despite her quiet. It made for a lovely song against the crackle of the flames, the water dripping from his body…

When the cloth was sufficiently soaped, she positioned herself behind him. He sat and crossed his legs. He placed his hands on the rim of the tub, gripping it. If he didn't, he couldn't say how long he could resist not touching her. His fingers began to tremble again, against the wood as she began to wash his back.

Her hands were strong, with fingers durable from needlework. They worked their way across him, one holding his shoulder while the other scrubbed. She wasn't harsh though. She didn't work quickly. His breath fell into a steady rhythm as she got the top middle of his back he could never easily reach, around the shoulder blades and onto his neck and shoulders.

As she reached for his right shoulder, she stood and bent over him. Tiresias felt her breath on his neck and closed his eyes, savoring it.

But she stood up soon after and the graze of the cloth was gone. Tiresias heard her walk back to the fire and pick up another pitcher. Warm water hit his back and shoulders again as the suds slid from his skin. He loosened his grip on the tub and exhaled. His arms felt heavy all of a sudden.

He opened his eyes to see Mal standing before him, pitcher at her feet, soaped cloth in hand. The request in her eyes clear enough, Tiresias stood. Slowly though, as to not send water over the tub's edge and onto the floor.

Her eyes followed his as he rose above her. She barely came up to his shoulders. Barely a beat passed before her eyes fell to his chest. He didn't need to ask what she was looking at. Even with the hair on his chest, it was quite prominent.

She reached out and traced the scar that Clegane gave him, the only permanent marker from their duel. Luckily. Her fingers grazed it slowly, from his right pectoral to his left abdomen. She lingered at the end of it, before meeting his eyes again. He tried to read hers. The steeled look was back. It was muted and calm, but it was back.

Then again, he didn't quite trust himself to see and think clearly. He was standing nude in front of her, fully erect. His breath was still a little short.

Without breaking eye contact, she raised her cloth and began to scrub his chest. She worked her way around his torso, lifting his arm to get his sides, then tending to the arms. Once that was done, she stepped behind, scrubbing the lower back she didn't get while he was sitting. Without hesitation, she continued on to his buttocks. Tiresias tried and failed to breathe calmly.

She didn't hurry in that area, but she didn't linger either, crouching down and getting his legs, scrubbing his calves and the back of his thighs. When she was done, Tiresias placed one foot up, balancing on the rim. Mal came to the front, eyes down on his leg as she washed it and then the other one. They both did their best to ignore his groin, his obvious arousal, her cloth coming close, but never touching. Her eyes only on what she scrubbed. Collected. Relaxed.

But he still heard her heart racing. The song of her blood. Almost as fast as his.

Finally she straightened and he placed his foot back into the tub. She placed the cloth in a loose sack and fetched another pitcher. The water wasn't steaming, but it was still warm as it rinsed the suds from his body. She poured it slowly, from all around him. Deftly too. Only a couple dozen drops escaped the boundary of the round tub.

With the pitcher empty, she placed it gently on the floor next to the other empty one. She grabbed the last full pitcher and came to the tub. She crouched down in front of him. Tiresias stared, but she did not look up. She merely set down the pitcher and picked up the soap, wetting it in the tub. Then she scrubbed her hands, whipping up a lather.

"On your knees," she said, eyes still on her hands.

He didn't mishear her. He knew that. And having not questioned any of her commands, he was not inclined to start now. Exhaling, he lowered himself, submerging his knees below the low level of water collected in the tub. He knelt there, knowing to wait. Mal was still lathering her hands.

But she stopped shortly and looked to him. Her face was still calm, but her brown eyes gleamed and she swallowed slightly before speaking.

"Move yourself to the edge."

Shuffling gently from the center, he brought himself just before the rounded rim of the tub. Mal still met his eyes and he didn't stray from her gaze. He did, however, grip the edge of the tub as he did before. And for the same reason. He had a very good idea, and hope, of what she'd do next.

Sure enough, she lowered her eyes and brought her lathered hands to his groin. He couldn't help a small gasp.

She didn't seem to mind. Her hands moved through his hair, along his shaft and cupped his scrotum. It wasn't a massage, but it was a thorough, gentle scrub.

Tiresias lowered his head, his breathing deep, but quickening. After a few seconds, she glanced back up at him, her brown eyes boring into him. That almost ended him. He couldn't look at her. He dropped his eyes, averting his gaze, but looking down meant gazing down at her hands. Her wonderful hands and how they worked…

He closed his eyes and panted softly. There was no hiding it from Mal, not that he wanted to. He didn't care if she saw his chest rise and fall, his fingers tremble, his cock twitch…

One of her hands left him and he opened his eyes. She reached for the last pitcher. Cupping his scrotum and raising it up, she slowly poured water, rinsing the suds. The water wasn't warm and it helped Tiresias slow down his breathing.

With everything rinsed, Mal dropped his privates and poured water over her own hands, flicking them free of water over the tub. Tiresias remained on his knees and continued to breathe, closing his eyes again. His hands still gripped the rim.

"Do you shave when you wash?"

He opened his eyes. She was standing before him, wiping her hands with a cloth. Swallowing, he nodded.

"Sometimes."

"Where's your razor?"

He nodded dully off to the corner. "Drawer. Top left."

His ears followed Mal as she walked to the drawer and extracted the razor. His eyes remained on the blaze in the hearth. It was beginning to diminish, the shadows growing deeper around him.

Sighing, he relinquished his grip on the rim and sat back down in the tub. He ran his hands over his face, feeling the harsh beginnings of a beard.

Mal returned with the razor and crouched before him as before. She had also brought the shaving soap he had. Wetting it in the tub, she lathered her hands as before. Though this time, she worked much more quickly. Tiresias settled in, bringing his face forward.

With her hands lathered, Mal began to rub the soap in, along his neck, in circles on the cheeks and gently above the lip.

"You ever done this before?" Tiresias asked, doing his best not to move his mouth.

"Aye," Mal muttered. She rinsed her hands. "My family were pig farmers. 'Fore they passed. Shaved my first dead hog when I was six."

"Just a wee lass," he murmured.

Mal raised the razor, turning the blade out.

"Aye," she said. "Grew up quick though. Can I borrow your belt?"

He nodded and she fetched his belt from the bed, running the razor back and forth across it. With the edge prepared, she crouched down again and raised the blade to his cheek.

Tiresias didn't know if skill with a needle correlated to skill with a razor. But it seemed to be the case with Mal. She brought the blade down thoroughly and the deep scratch of the razor sent a tingle through the rest of him. His right cheek was quickly smooth and she started on the left.

"When'd you shave last?" she asked, her eyes unblinking on the blade.

He shrugged. Carefully. "Yester morn."

Between every stroke, she lowered the blade into the water, cleaning it.

"Quite the shadow you've grown in a day." She grabbed his chin gently, turning him to the firelight and raising his head. "Why don't you grow it out?"

"Never needed it for the cold," he said, eyes on the ceiling. "Besides, a beard shields you from everything else. I like to feel things. The wind, the scratch of a razor, the water when I swim…"

He lowered his eyes to her. She was almost done with his neck.

"Woman's kiss."

The blade paused, but only slightly before she continued. Once the neck was done, she lowered his chin. With the blade clean, she started around his mouth, beginning below his lips.

Her brown eyes were open before him. He could stare into them, as they focused on the razor.

She was still shaving when she spoke.

"You'd put me in danger…" Her voice was softer than the flames. "If we were together?"

Tiresias sighed. "I believe so."

"And you still want to be with me?"

"That's why it's your choice. My enemies…they're not yours."

Mal finished with his chin and dipped the blade below the water. The blade stayed there though; her eyes downcast.

"These enemies of yours…they know you're pledged to House Stark? That you work for them?"

She spoke quietly. As though the walls could hear them.

"Aye," answered Tiresias. "They do."

The fire crackled behind her.

"I also work for House Stark. Training to dress them. Shield them from the winters. Make them beautiful." She snorted lightly. "Do my best anyway."

Mal then sighed, her shoulders rising and falling, as she exhaled through her nose.

"So I guess…in a way…I'm already pledged to House Stark too…since you're pledged to House Stark…your enemies are theirs…and their enemies are mine as well…with or without you as my man."

She raised her eyes. They were full of steel. His fingers were still gentle as they steadied his chin. Mal focused unblinkingly as she tended to the beginnings of his moustache.

"As for the time away…I'm still peeved at you for that. Need more than a thimble and threads to make up for that…but in the years ahead…if I know that you're traveling far, staying away long…I could handle it, I suppose."

"You could?"

She shrugged. "Always figured I'd marry a soldier 'fore I met you."

The razor paused. "Perhaps Otis?" she said lightly.

"Otis?"

A shadow of a grin ran across her face.

"Well, he's gentle enough. Not too tall. Turns red when he says hello. He brought me yellow snapdragons when I stopped serving."

"Sounds darling," Tiresias murmured.

"He's a soldier still." The little joviality there dropped. "He'll leave as all soldiers do. Go and put himself in danger. Leave me to wonder if he's coming back."

Turning his chin slightly, she got the corners of his mouth.

"It could be the same with many other men. I could marry a sailor…a hunter…a miner…they'd all give me the worries a woman expects in life."

She met his eyes briefly. "And it won't be any different with you, aye? So you say?"

"No…probably not."

Her fingers ran over his upper lip. "You killed the Mountain. You're a good fighter."

That wasn't a question. And so he remained silent as she wiped the blade clean and closed it. She took a clean cloth and dipped it in the pitcher. Wringing it, she brought it to his face, wiping him clean.

"When you're away, doing whatever Lord Stark commands of you…I trust you to survive…and to come back. And if any of our enemies come to see to me or anyone else, I trust you to protect them. To protect me."

"And if I'm away when they come?" Tiresias asked, almost whispering. That was his fear, which kept him from her the most. He was helpless away from Winterfell, beyond the Wall, in the south…he couldn't protect her then…

Mal dropped the damp cloth in the linens sack. She remained crouched though and stroked his face, checking her work. Her fingers glided over his skin and stopped, cupping his cheek.

"If that should happen," she said quietly. "I trust you to kill whoever harmed me."

Her face was level with his and her brown eyes bored deep into his. There was a little fear there, but the steel was back, gleaming with strength.

Her last statement wasn't a question. But still, he felt compelled to nod.

Tiresias felt her exhale as she moved forward. He closed his eyes and felt her lips press against his cheek. The kiss lingered and her mouth opened, her tongue swirling delicately on his skin. She moved down to his neck and did the same, tasting him.

A faint moan escaped him. He turned his head to kiss her hand, still cupping his cheek.

And then she stood. Not too quickly. And he was left sitting in the tub, with a racing heart and quickened breath.

Mal took a breath herself and began to unroll her sleeves, buttoning her cuffs. Tiresias began to laugh lightly.

"You shouldn't kiss my neck like that if you don't want me to come after you."

She smiled and tossed him a drying cloth. "I'll keep that in mind when we're wed."

Tiresias stood and began to pat himself down.

"You want to get married soon?"

Mal shrugged. "Wouldn't mind a few months of an actual courtship. Gifts from afar are nice, but…"

For the first time that evening, she smiled with a hint of embarrassment. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

Tiresias stepped out, drying his feet. "Think I'm the poetic type?"

She checked that her hair was in place before she picked up her bag.

"Aye, I've heard you sing. Remember?"

With that, she went to the door. Her calm exit was disrupted when she forgot that the door was locked. She lowered her head, her hand still on the knob. He could see her embarrassed grin from the side.

"Here," said Tiresias, coming over. He grabbed the key from the bed and reached around her. She didn't move, but he still heard her pulse quicken.

Mal opened the door slowly, checking that the corridor was deserted before stepping out. She turned back to Tiresias, still damp and wrapped in a cloth at the door. A little quiet laughter escaped her before she calmed.

"G'night," she said with a slight smile.

"G'night," he said quietly. His mouth was quite dry.

With that, she turned and strode away, her shoes echoing down the corridor. Tiresias didn't linger in the doorway to watch her disappear. He shut the door and locked it again. Soon there'd be a night when she didn't leave.

And a night when she wouldn't leave you like this.

Tiresias looked down and laughed. That damn kiss on his neck had stirred him again. He was tempted to finish it off. But as he played with himself, he soon dropped it, not feeling like it.

He wanted to see her eyes, see them cloud over in ecstasy as he lost himself in them. Anything else…just seemed inadequate.

You be careful, mate. Happy wife, happy life…it'd be great…but you still have work to do.

He certainly did and he couldn't really do that with Mal on his mind above and an erect cock below. Sitting on the bed, he started the breathing exercises. Now was the time to bring Clark's mother into this.

Inhale on one, two, three, four…and hold on one, two, three, four…and release on one, two, three, four…

After ten minutes, he was calmed. And exhausted. The fire was almost gone and sleep would come soon.

But it wasn't here yet. There was still work to do. And candles were still lit. He grabbed two of them and made his way to the desk. There, he opened a tome on the Dornish noble houses he grabbed from the library a few nights ago. He wasn't sure how much he would retain in the morning. But he needed to work.

And so he read into the night. When he laid down to sleep later, Dornish houses passed through his mind, some remaining in the crevices, others escaping him.

He turned over and, in the darkness, he saw a pair of brown eyes. He could still smell her in the room. His breath fluttered and he closed his eyes.

Soon, mate. Soon.