Chapter 49

Tiresias breathed easier when he rode over the hills and spotted Winterfell, its high walls littered with torchlight in the night. He didn't kick his steed to hurry though. The beast had been riding straight since sundown.

It wasn't complaining though. Of all the horses he discovered in Locke's camp a quartermile away from the clearing, he selected this mount for its temperament. He did consider roping all the horses and taking them along to sell at the nearest castle who could take them. Perhaps Castle Cerwyn.

Ultimately, he decided against it. His skills didn't lie in horsemanship. Herding ten horses – he supposed the tenth one was for him to be slung across – was not an endeavor he wished to undertake.

Besides, he didn't need the extra coin. After looting the remaining corpses, his purse was now dangerously full. To the point where he actually needed Locke's purse and kept it. It was full as well, hidden at the bottom of his rucksack.

So after selecting the most docile mount and selecting the saddle he wanted, he removed the bits and bands of the others and freed them. Most cantered off, but a few ambled about, looking to him curiously as he pillaged the rest of the camp. After refilling his supplies, he mounted their friend and rode out, trotting into the dark.

Even with the Bolton hunters dead, he still proceeded cautiously. There were plenty of men left in the North who could easily be paid to deal with him. When he reached the Kingsroad, he still rode carefully, taking shelter at an inn whenever he could. His back thanked him for it.

But nowhere farther along the Kingsroad did he face trouble. Or even recognition. For which he was grateful. His name was known. His face much less so. And he was Johann again. That violent episode along the White Knife was only the instance he was Tiresias.

Until tonight. He dismounted his steed as he entered Wintertown, leading him to the castle. The horse's panting exuded quite the fog in the chilled night.

Almost there, man. Come on.

Vics let him in without ceremony or a word to his absence. Tiresias was almost proud of him. The man was grown now. There were no stablehands awake at this hour. He stripped his ride of his saddle, removed his reins and led to the trough for a long drink. After a grateful pat for his services, he left the horse in an empty stable with feed and proceeded to the castle.

Pausing between two destinations, he turned from his room and proceeded to the Warden's solar. There was always the possibility that Lord Stark was awake, deep in his work, ignorant of the hour. It was rare, but still possible.

It seemed likely as he approached. Guards were posted at regular intervals. He greeted a few by name and they returned the favor, allowing him past. Soon he stood before Lord Stark's chamber. Not even needing to ask, the guard, Trevor, turned and knocked on the door.

"Aye?" came Lord Stark's voice from inside.

Trevor opened the door and leaned in. "M'Lord, Tiresias has returned, wishing to speak to you."

A few seconds passed before he heard the chair creak as the lord sat up, sighing.

"Send him in," he said, his voice muffled.

Tiresias nodded to Trevor and entered to see Lord Stark rubbing his face. The door shut behind him and he walked to the front of the desk. The Warden lowered his hand and looked to him, his eyes wandering to his rucksack and back.

"You just arrived?"

"Aye," said Tiresias with a quick nod. A small laugh escaped him.

"What?"

He shook his head. "First time I entered here, I was searched for a weapon. Now I wander in here with a bow and arrow. Dagger. Nothing doing…"

His voice trailed off; the tangent abandoned.

I am quite tired…

Lord Stark must have seen it on his face. He nodded to the chair.

"Sit."

Tiresias did so, placing his rucksack, bow and quiver on the floor and dropping his face into his hands. As he rubbed his eyes, he heard Lord Stark fill a cup and walk towards him. He lifted his head and accepted the offered cup of water. Lord Stark didn't return to his chair, merely leaning against the desk as Tiresias drank.

After a measured draught, he lowered the cup.

"Thank you," he muttered, before meeting Lord Stark's gaze. "I was attacked on my way here. Three days out from White Harbor."

The fire from the hearth reflected in the Warden's eyes. He didn't even blink.

Tiresias sat up. "You knew already?"

Lord Stark sighed. "I suspected. A raven arrived from White Harbor two nights ago. Lord Manderly wrote to inform me of an unusual slaughter. Two dead men in the road along the White Knife. The city guard formed a hunting party and brought dogs. Seven more men were found in the surrounding woods."

His throat was dry again. Swallowing what little spit he had, he spoke again.

"Why did he write to you about it?"

Lord Stark stood from the desk and walked back around to his chair.

"He found the circumstances strange. A farther ride west on the road revealed an abandoned camp, with enough supplies for a party of nine men. But the corpses were spread out. They didn't all fall at once. Doesn't seem likely that they were ambushed by a larger party. And though their purses were all emptied, they found far too many supplies that were left behind at the camp. Probably couldn't be carried by one man. A few well-behaved horses were milling about as well."

The Warden dropped his gaze to Tiresia's side, where his purse hung heavy on his belt. Resisting the urge to hide it, he raised his cup again. The fire crackled in the hearth.

"Did you respond?"

"The following morning. I thanked Lord Manderly for his information, but it sounded like a group of bandits simply bit off more they could chew and stumbled upon a smaller, but able group of warriors. I promised to inform the houses just north of the Neck of the circumstances and to keep an eye out for any such small group."

Locke and his men didn't have any Bolton insignia on their persons, but still Tiresias had to ask.

"Did anyone from White Harbor recognize them? Any of the nine men?"

Lord Stark shook his head. "No. And none of the men carried any letters to speak for him. All the corpses were collected and buried in a mass grave."

Tiresias cursed internally. Better that they were burned.

He quickly dropped the irritation. There wasn't any time for that. He turned back to the Warden to discover Lord Stark peering at him.

"Did you recognize any of them?" he asked softly.

Tiresias nodded. "One of them. Don't know if you want to know his name. But he was Bolton's best hunter. I met him over a year ago when I was coming back from the Dreadfort. He brought some light-footed friends this time around."

That garnered no smile from the Warden.

"This is the second time that Lord Bolton has attempted to apprehend you," Lord Stark stated quietly.

"You can't answer him," he said immediately, sensing the thought.

Lord Stark fixed him with a stare and Tiresias sighed. That was not his call to make. Still he spoke.

"Mance is coming soon. Along with a hundred thousand Free Folk. You need the North focused and united on the Wall to mitigate their passing. If you engage Bolton at the same time, try to bring him to any sense of justice, it won't end well. At best, it'd be a distraction. At worst, he'd plague your soldiers and every other house with insurgent tactics. Cause chaos. Even if he just holes up in the Dreadfort and waits out a siege, we couldn't afford it."

"Can I afford Lord Bolton to believe that he can attack my men without consequence?"

"Did Lord Bolton's men who attack me?" Tiresias shrugged. "I couldn't tell. They didn't wear his insignia. I didn't recognize any of them. Certainly not from a vision of the future or anything as ridiculous as that. I'm just a talented little shit who won't be taken."

Lord Stark didn't deign to respond. He didn't blame him. It was a little undignified.

"We're certainly not making a point to speak to Lord Bolton about the slaughter on the White Knife. He'll hear of my arrival in Winterfell soon enough. But we won't speak of it. You've already handled the official story and we'll stick to it. A spat between two gangs of bandits. I was merely lucky enough to walk the river after it all went down.

"We need as much calm in the North as possible. I'm not forgetting about Bolton. I swear I'm not…but you won't be able to help me in this."

"Why not?"

He looked straight into Lord Stark's eyes. "Because you can't fight Bolton on his level. I can and I will. But not now."

Shrugging, he leaned back in his chair. "Besides, it's not the worst thing for him to feel a little untouchable. He certainly won't come out of the Dreadfort if he feels threatened."

Crackles from the hearth sang in the solar. He wondered if Lord Stark still heard them. Whether they were just background at this point. They sat quietly for a moment.

Tiresias cleared his throat. "Besides, we have another reason to play dumb for now."

"What's that?"

"I knew someone saw me in White Harbor when I got off the ship," Tiresias murmured before leaning forward. "They had a scout or two by the thoroughfare. Waiting for me. I sensed them but I couldn't find them before they disappeared. They rode out of White Harbor and told the others I was coming."

Trevor was a longtime personal guard of Lord Stark. He was trustworthy. And they had been speaking quietly enough so that their conversation wouldn't carry outside the solar. Nevertheless, Tiresias spared a glance to the door before continuing.

"There's a spy in Winterfell."

Lord Stark exhaled through his nose. "I'm not saying you're wrong, but your departure with Prince Oberyn was well noted. As well as your travel to White Harbor. It wouldn't have been an outrageous guess to suspect you'd return that way as well."

"It wouldn't," Tiresias conceded. "But I don't believe it's that simple. Someone made a point to tell Lord Bolton that I left the North. He ordered his hunter to gather men and intercept me on my return."

"They could have been waiting well over a month. Lord Bolton has the patience."

"No, they had only been there for a short while," Tiresias murmured. "I questioned one of them. They got an accurate timetable for my return. They were ready."

Silence permeated the solar. Tiresias drank the rest of his water and set the cup down on the desk. Lord Stark eyed it before looking to him again.

"Whom did you speak with about your return?"

"A few that I trust, but I didn't forbid them to speak of it with anyone else. I didn't deem it sensitive information. That was my mistake." He leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I'll make a few inquiries."

Seeing that he wasn't going to elaborate, Lord Stark dropped the subject. He leaned back and sighed himself.

"Lord Bolton has plenty of more men at his command. He can spare nine of them. Even his very best hunters. You can't fight them all."

Tiresias scoffed humorlessly. "As fun as that sounds, I think you're right."

"I won't order you to do anything, not even to be cautious. But I don't think you should leave Winterfell unescorted again. Even if it's just to the Wolfswood. You or your wife."

"Fine by me." He rubbed his eyes. "I'm tired of travel anyway. I'm prepared to hibernate in the library until Mance arrives at Castle Black. That hasn't happened yet, has it?"

"No." Lord Stark shook his head. "Lord Commander Mormont hasn't written yet."

It was very late and there was no more time for permeated pauses. His adventure on the road home accounted for, Tiresias tightened his jaw and gave the news he was dreading to give.

"I don't know if you've heard yet, but I didn't leave Dragonstone in the best light."

Lord Stark peered at him, but said nothing. It was more difficult than he remembered to meet the man's eye.

"If I had stayed, I'm sure that I would have been forced to King's Landing," he continued. "So I escaped. And given how I left the conversation with Lord Stannis about the dragonglass trade, the story about the Free Folk…I'm sorry, Lord Stark. I don't believe I helped."

Dropping his gaze, Lord Stark opened a drawer. Shuffling through parchment, he extracted a roll and placed it on the desk, in front of Tiresias.

He eyed the letter in front of him. His first question answered quickly by the broken seal. A wax stag's head was prominent. When he looked back to Lord Stark, the Warden gave no clue as to its contents. He leaned back in his chair and waited.

Steeling himself, Tiresias picked up the letter, unrolling it. It was quite the length. The soft firelight from the hearth played on the parchment as he read.

To Lord Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North,

Your librarian, Tiresias, departed as quickly as he arrived. However, not before revealing your plans concerning the wildlings that reside north of the Wall.

I do not question your jurisdiction as Warden of the North. But the safety of the Seven Kingdoms concerns me and those on the Small Council. Your plans, however altruistic and in the interest of a healing peace between the North and the wildlings, are radical and will require intrinsic discussion between the Crown and the Small Council. And most probably the other Wardens in time.

You may expect more ravens from the Crown on this subject. And a request for an emissary to further explain your actions.

With the above stated, despite my reservations, I have been counselled by my own advisors to resume the dragonglass trade to Winterfell. I've decided for a temporary revival. Until further notice. My decision to follow this counsel is no endorsement of your plans for a mass wildling migration. However, as your servant stated, you are trying to broker a peace. Under these delicate circumstances, it would not benefit anyone to deprive the savages of their superstitious treasure and possibly invoke a hostile response.

The price for further shipments, however, is doubled. And any further trades between us will be met with the greatest scrutiny. You withheld crucial information in your dealings with me, Lord Stark. I will not forget that.

Signed,

Stannis Bartheon, Lord of Dragonstone, Master of Ships

Tiresias' exhale escaped from him in a hiss as he lowered the scroll. He placed it back on the desk and looked to the Warden.

"That…that was…" He glanced back to the parchment, now curled back up. "Not what I expected. A declaration of war. Your name defamed. Your actions condemned. That's quite light."

Lord Stark picked up the letter and placed it back in his desk. "Lord Stannis isn't the King. He's in no position to declare war on behalf of the Crown."

"He's not happy with you."

"We have the dragonglass deal back. At least for a while. Despite your sudden departure, he must have heard enough from you to decide in our favor."

"I don't think I had much to do with that to be honest," Tiresias muttered. Behind him, the heat of the hearth pulsed. He dismissed it.

Imagination. Nothing more. She's far away from here.

But he couldn't help his jaw from tightening. He couldn't relax before Lord Stark noticed it.

"Was it only the possibility of returning to King's Landing that caused your flight, Tiresias?"

He had asked himself the same question. There was plenty of time on the ship to ponder it. The excitement on the road from White Harbor chased it from his mind. He struggled to remember his answer.

"Probably…but I don't know. One of Lord Stannis' advisors is a Red Priestess from Asshai, named Melisandre. Worships and preaches the Lord of Light. She's the one who told Lord Stannis of my dragonglass suggestion. She read it in the flames."

He shrugged. "You can call her a witch. It's a fair enough description."

"Did you flee Dragonstone because of her?" Lord Stark asked quietly.

"I think so," Tiresias murmured. "A little. I wasn't in danger of being put to the stake. She wasn't going to burn me. So she said."

He looked to the Warden. "A Fire Priestess is not a bad person to have in your corner up here. When the Night King comes."

"You wish to make her an ally?"

"In time, I think we should. She was before. But…"

Images of fire swam softly in his mind. Accompanied by the screams. Not just those of Shireen, but others. Selyse's brother. The others on Dragonstone who suffered with him. Mance Rayder's stubborn fortitude falling to the pain of the burn…

And all accompanied by a low voice with bright, confident eyes…Melisandre preaching the god that would be the enemy of ice…

"She wouldn't help us now. Not in the North. Fanatism is something you resort to when you run out of time. Right now, we still have time. And if the need for divine fire comes…" 

His voice trailed off. There was no guarantee that Melisandre wouldn't just come north herself. She still stood by Stannis' side, but how long would that last? He didn't like the way she looked at him. The way she saw right through him. How she called him by his name…

At this point, Lord Stark seemed to understand him. He doubted the man wanted a fanatic in his lands regardless.

Tiresias straightened up; his weariness remembered. "How are you going to respond?"

Lord Stark sighed. "Well, I've written to Lord Stannis yesterday, agreeing to the new price. As for the Small Council…I await their response. And will respond in kind."

"The sooner we talk to Mance Rayder, the better chance we have for peace. You must be able to break this news to the northern lords before word leaks from the capital."

That was no news to the Warden. His brow furrowed, but he showed no surprise.

"Then let's hope that Castle Black writes of his arrival shortly."

It was evident from his expression that they were thinking the same thing: the year was barely halfway through. Even if Mance returned to the Wall before then, whispers of Lord Stark's mad scheme could have spread to the North from the southern kingdoms. The saving grace was the speed of how such news spread. When Tiresias considered his old world and how quickly information spread from one side of the world to another. How quickly it could be manipulated…medieval gossip traveled at a much slower pace.

But would it be slow enough? As the man said, they could only hope. There wasn't anything else to gain in this solar tonight. Lord Stark had his work and Tiresias needed his rest.

Grabbing his rucksack and bow, he gave a light nod before doing a double take.

Under the soft firelight, in the dark of night, he noticed that at long last, Ned Stark resembled the Ned Stark he saw at the start of the story. The weariness, the graying hair; he had arrived. His presence at Winterfell and his warnings had aged the Warden quicker than he realized.

And it's only going to get worse. The shitstorm that's coming our way…I wonder if I'll look like an old man too in a few years?

His hesitation didn't go unnoticed.

"Is there something else?" Lord Stark asked.

He shook his head. "No…no, not to—

A promise came back to him.

"Actually, there is something. Not anything dire, I promise."

Lord Stark almost smiled. "What is it?"

"Gendry confided in me before I left that he would like to learn his letters. Would you excuse him from his apprenticeship a couple nights every week and permit him to come to the library?"

"Would you be teaching the lad yourself?"

Tiresias shrugged. "I thought it more proper than Maester Luwin. Lady Stark would probably think so as well."

An odd gleam shone in the Warden's eye. But it was only there for a moment.

"Once you decide on which evenings, let me know and I'll speak to Mikken."

He nodded. "Thank you, Lord Stark. G'night."

His walk from the solar to his quarters was silent. As silent as a place such as Winterfell could ever be. There were always people awake. To run the castle. To guard it. Still, aside from a few greetings by the posted night watchmen, his walk was undisturbed.

Unlocking his door and closing it with the barest of creaks, he turned to the bed. He didn't need the few remaining embers from the hearth to see Mal stirring.

"It's all right. It's me." he murmured, coming to the bed and sitting. He saw Mal sit up in the dark, heard her racing heart. He should have brought a candle along.

"Ti…Tiresias?" she muttered, coming to.

"Aye, it's me." Her heartrate was beginning to calm. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

She put out her hand and he clasped it. Gently. Her brown eyes focused in on him in the dark.

"You're home?"

He nodded. "I've been riding since late afternoon. I'm just dropping off my things. I'm headed to the springs."

"The springs?"

"Haven't bathed since White Harbor." He didn't know why he still whispered.

Her thumbs grazed his hand. "Get into bed."

"You sure? I stink."

Mal leaned forward and kissed him. "You can bathe on the morrow. Just take off your clothes. They stink more than you."

By the time he removed his clothes, she had removed her night clothes. After he settled in, she curled up alongside him. They laid silent. Her body was still warm from slumber.

She fell asleep first, returning quickly to her dreams. Closing his eyes, he listened to her steady breath and the wind that graced the castle. It was a scene many men would envy. It still took him a while to fall asleep.

Tiresias had a vague notion of Mal getting up in the predawn and quietly leaving the chamber. When he actually opened his eyes, bright sunlight was streaming through the window. He sat up slowly. Forgetting to stretch after riding so long was a mistake.

Then he actually smelled himself.

So was forgoing the springs apparently.

Mal must have missed him greatly to have welcomed him back with such a stench. He didn't regret not washing on the road though. After his encounter with Locke and his men, it wasn't a good idea to strip down. To be so vulnerable. Not when traveling alone.

Now that he was home however, he had no excuse. Throwing the cover and sheets back to air out, he opened the window to let the cool summer breeze waft through. After twenty minutes of stretching, he dressed, took a fresh set of clothes and wandered down to the springs.

By the time he emerged clean, the sun was just beginning to reach the high point. Normally he would be busy in the library, but if he went there now, he would just be interrupting lessons. Not wishing that and knowing he'd see the children later, he cleaned up his chamber, made the bed and packed away the contents of his rucksack. Emptying out the purses onto the desk, he stored away the majority of the stolen coins into a locked compartment, before placing a few silvers back.

His purse hung much lighter on his belt. As for Locke's, there were no markings, nothing fancy about it. Still he didn't wish to chance it being recognized. Taking his dagger, he sliced it open along the seams.

On his way to the kitchens for a meal, he walked past the forges and workshops, including the tanner's place. After a quick glance, without stopping, he nonchalantly dropped the destroyed purse into the scrap pile, which the tanner's apprentices used for practice. He didn't look back and greeted those that welcomed him home. That last remnant of Locke's would be morphed irrevocably in a few hours.

It may have been overkill, but as he continued to walked through Winterfell, a light thrill went through him. Not for the first time since he rode away from that ambush. It was exciting to have stolen, to have robbed a man's purse in the evening quiet of the forest. Especially after they tried to kill him…

Stop, man. Don't indulge in that. Don't indulge. It was practical. Dead men don't need silver.

That thought made him stop in the corridor when he remembered where it originated from.

Shit.

Fortunately, he was saved from his thoughts when a call echoed across the hall.

"Tiresias! You're back?"

He turned to see Gord striding down the hall, coming towards him, arms wide. A grin emerged on his face as he tried to brace himself.

It was in vain. A groan escaped him as Gord embraced him fiercely.

"Hello, Gord," he grunted.

"Glad yeh made it home." He sniffed, before releasing him. "Smell nice, yeh perfumed ponce."

"Cheers, man," said Tiresias, clapping the man on the shoulder. Then he remembered. "How's Ginn? She all right?"

"Mal didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what? I just arrived last night."

Gord didn't answer, but his grin grew twice in size.

"Gord, what? What happened? Did the child come?"

"Aye, they did."

Tiresias felt his own grin growing and made an educated guess.

"Twins? You two had twins?" Another thought occurred. "That's why they're early."

"Burstin' to get out. She was happy to let them. It went fine. She's good." Gord started laughing. "Two boys, mate. Two!"

"Congratulations, Gord." He shook the man's hand. "I mean it. It's wonderful news."

"Aye, it is. Tiring, but good." There was a bit of shadow beneath his eyes. He couldn't imagine how Ginn felt. "You'll know it firsthand soon enough, aye?"

Resisting the urge to change the subject too quickly, Tiresias shrugged.

"Maybe," he said noncommittally. "We do what we can. When can I come and see the little ones?"

Gord shrugged. "Whenever you can. I'm sure Ginn or my mum won't chase you anyway. Mal comes by every other day, helping with something or another."

"That's good of her. I'll come by in the next few days."

Glancing to the window, he judged the sun to be at its high point. The lessons should be over and the library empty by now.

"I need to see to my duties. It was a three-month absence, not ten, but I'm sure my work has piled up."

Gord waved him off. "See to it, mate. I'll see you about."

"Definitely. Congratulations again, my friend. It's…it's just great. I'm happy for you."

That earned him a parting pat on the shoulder before the big guard walked off. Tiresias proceeded to the library. All the while contemplating Gord's suggestion of his own brood.

When it came to children, he and Mal hadn't been using any protection. They hadn't even discussed it. True, they hadn't been married long and he was away for three months, but still.

In his old world, having children was not a requirement, despite the noisy pushback of a few relatives. In Westeros, it was simply a given. So why would they discuss it? They simply fucked, knowing full well what it would lead to. They were married. It was expected.

His heart raced at the thought. Ashamedly it was mostly fear. He was truly happy for Gord and Ginn. And for all others who wanted children and had them. But for him…he didn't know if he was merely going through the motions. He loved Mal, but being a father was an adjustment he didn't think he was ever to going to have to make.

You adjusted to a medieval fantasy world. You adjusted to a dead language. You adjusted to a blade. Why not fatherhood?

He hoped to verbalize it eventually. So he could stamp it out before it was too late. Mal deserved better than his current emotional state.

Coming out of his own thoughts, he found himself at the door to the library. The smells of the pages engulfed him and his anxiety was forgotten. As he neared his desk, he found it as organized as he left it. With the surface dusted and the awaiting letters neatly arranged. After opening the window to let the cool summer breeze in, he lowered himself into his chair and sighed.

Allowing the peace for a few minutes, he turned to the stack of letters. He didn't intend to work today, but he could always prepare for tomorrow. Flitting through the rolled parchments, he paused on one. A red wax in the shape of a lion sealed it.

Tiresias leaned back, contemplating the seal for a brief moment before breaking it.

One letter today won't kill me.

After unrolling and angling it to the sunlight, Tiresias began to read.

Dear Tiresias Mountaingoat,

I must say I'm rather offended that I had to find out about Prince Oberyn's visit to Winterfell from the gossip of the Court and not you personally. As delightful as the gossip was, I almost wished I was back in Casterly Rock, to see the reaction of my beloved father.

I hope you could enlighten me as to the nature of the Prince's visit. Or at least tell me if you and Lord Stark remain healthy with no lopped fingers or heads. If you wrote so, it would at least answer the question whether or not you were right about Prince Oberyn's feelings towards you, taking what many believed belonged to him.

Then again, considering the Crown hears no such conflict between the North and Dorne at the moment, I can only imagine the diplomatic visit to be a resounding success.

However, as offended as I was about your silence considering the Red Viper, I was more offended that you declined a chance to see me again, your favorite dwarf. And I wasn't the only one. When Lord Stannis arrived in the capital sans you, disappointment was rampant throughout the Court. My sweet sister commented how she had wished to see the meek man who slayed our bannerman. Prince Joffrey wanted to see you fight. Admittedly, so do Prince Tommen and King Robert, but they at least would have feasted you first. The young King-to-be, however, had hoped to place you in combat against the Hound and allow Sandor Clegane his chance at vengeance for killing his beloved brother. The Hound didn't say a word to that. Didn't even move. But Grand Maester Pycelle's acolytes tended to many wounded and bruised castle guards that night in the training yard. Far more than the usual amount. Blows meant for you. So it's been said.

Alas, it seems that we must find another occasion to see one another. I hope you arrived back in Winterfell to receive this letter safe and sound. Many blessings and all that nonsense.

Sincerely,

Tyrion

Tiresias placed the letter down, exhaling through his nose.

So it wasn't a lie…

Melisandre did him a great favor, warning him off Dragonstone before he was forced to King's Landing. It was grimly satisfying to have his fears validated. As much as he would like to have seen Tyrion again and speak to other interesting characters, it was too much of a risk now.

If ever he found himself in the capital again, it would be in a time of great desperation. Some need or event that would force him out of his Northern haven.

A haven threatened by the coming migration of the Free Folk, the Army of the Dead, the Night King…

And another immediate threat as well.

Tiresias looked to the library, to the nooks and crannies, to all the places where one could hide. There was no one here. He detected no scent. No footfalls fell lightly on the floor. No eyes on him at the moment.

But there is a spy in Winterfell.

Releasing his breath on a count, he considered his options. The good news is that having spent years in the castle, he could identify a stranger fairly easily. If someone bothered to come into his room and root around, he could trace their scent. And especially if the spy was someone he recognized from before in the story…well that would just be easy.

But Roose Bolton had many under his command and hardly any were given a name. He closed his eyes and tried to remember, but barely any of the cold, practical and occasionally sadistic individuals he saw in the Dreadfort stuck out to him. It was more likely the spy was someone he didn't recognize. Someone who wasn't given a name or even a face in the show…

He turned back to the letters. The last time he returned, Lord Stark said he'd consult Vayon Poole about any new servants Winterfell had brought on. It was worth a conversation with the man. He tried to be optimistic.

But it was no longer so simple anymore. Now he had Mal. He doubted the Martells were fooled about his marital status and he was certain that whoever the spy was would come to know it as well. Eventually Roose would know. And then he would have his way in.

Course, he had that all along. Any of the Starks. Maester Luwin. Ser Rodrik. If Roose simply wanted to hold people I consider dear to ransom, he has more than enough options. I wonder when he'll realize that.

In a steep contrast from the Martell visit, dinner in the Great Hall that night was a discreet affair. Mercifully, his return was received with quiet expectancy. Barth greeted him with a nod and went back to his plate immediately.

It didn't last long. Tiresias was two ladles into his stew when he heard the brigade. Swallowing, he turned to see Jon, Arya, Robb and Theon coming towards him. He turned back to Barth.

"Sorry, man," he muttered.

The brewer just shrugged and kept eating.

"Tiresias!" came a chorus of voices. He spun his leg over the bench and faced them. All of them sat down. Except for one. Theon remained standing, his eyes going to the door and back.

He met the young Greyjoy's eyes. "Hello, Theon. How are you?"

"Fine," Theon muttered quickly before nodding. "Good to have you back."

"Thank you," Tiresias said. "Is everything all right?"

"Aye, aye, everything's great." Theon looked to the door again and back. "Just have to go. Wanted to say hello."

Out of the corner of his eye, Tiresias saw a shit-eating grin from Robb. And some mildly disgusted faces from Jon and Arya.

"All right," he said lightly, forcing his own grin down. "Go on, don't let me keep you. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Right. Night." Theon nodded to them all, before walking out of the Great Hall. Tiresias watched him go before turning to the others, the obvious question on his face.

Arya answered it. "Theon has a girl."

"That's right," Tiresias said, turning to Jon. "You told me that. 'Fore I left."

"Aye," Jon muttered. "It's annoying. But it keeps him busy."

Robb changed the subject. "Father told us you went to Dragonstone."

"I did," Tiresias said, grateful for the opening. He wasn't well suited to discuss young romance.

Or rather, the blatant power imbalance between a young lord and a servant girl which makes her obliged to comply. But still…

"What'd you go there for?"

"Tomes in the Old Tongue." He answered evenly, but Robb continued to look at him expectantly.

The future lord of Winterfell was no fool. At least not when it came to this. Robb lived in this castle all his life. He had eyes and ears. He knew that dragonglass was imported. That the forge melted it down into weapons. And it was no great trick to learn where it was imported from.

Tiresias took a draught. "I also saw to the dragonglass trade. Lord Stannis Baratheon had concerns about our arrangement."

"Why'd Father send you?"

It wasn't a demand, a childish ask. He asked politely enough, out of curiosity.

"I was the one who had told him of the dragonglass deposits on Dragonstone. There are beach caves that tunnel into the island under the volcano."

"How'd you know of them?"

He tore off a piece of bread and dipped in the broth.

"I read it in a book," he said before popping the soaked bread in his mouth.

Tiresias took his time chewing and swallowing, well aware that his answer provided little satisfaction to his interrogators.

Robb looked at him with impatient eyes, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

"And?"

Finally the bread went down. "And what?" Tiresias asked.

"Why are we trading in dragonglass? Where's it going up north? Who's taking it?"

It was an effort not to look at the high table.

"Did you ask your father?"

As soon as he invoked Lord Stark, he saw the resignation in Robb's eyes. He knew how the rest of this exchange would go.

"Aye," the young lord muttered. "He said I'll be told later."

"Then you'll be told later," Tiresias said lightly. "It's your father's business when you'll be told. Not mine."

It was useful at times to have the cloak of a Warden to hide behind. Determined not to end the chitchat on a sour note, he turned to Jon and Arya.

"But I can talk of Dragonstone. I hope that if any of you have the opportunity to travel south, you'll be able to visit. It's an interesting island. With a fantastic castle."

"Is the castle really shaped like a giant dragon?" Arya asked.

That got a light laugh out of him.

"Well no, but there are numerous carvings of dragons in the walls. A pair of dragon heads greeted me as I arrived at the great gate."

The rest of the conversation concerned the castle and the journey. Tiresias even spoke of Braavos and his brief stay there. Though he didn't mention the play. Or the House of Black and White.

And even in Dragonstone, he omitted details. And though they indulged the conversation and even enjoyed it, he saw in their eyes that they sensed this. Even Arya picked it up from her brothers. They knew something greater was happening around him. And with his actions in the south, his role as a mere librarian was becoming more suspect.

Oddly enough, a part of him was glad. He knew that if things proceeded the best they could, several characters who before had died too soon to know of the White Walkers would be fighting them. It would serve them to know of them as early as possible.

But not yet. Lord Stark, Lord Commander Mormont, Uncle Benjen, Mance Rayder, the others…he begged them to hurry. He hoped he could speak to the children. Of the etching of the Night King in the cave on Dragonstone. Before they were unfortunate enough to meet him in person.