Chapter 47

He woke up the following morning with little appetite. In light of Stannis' refusal to make a decision over the dragonglass trade, he was also cursed with a night of haphazard rest. Even the waves crashing into the castle couldn't soothe him to sleep. He laid for an hour in the predawn, exhausted. He closed his eyes but he couldn't be tricked into falling back asleep.

Finally giving up the notion, he rose and dressed. As he left his room, he brushed a hand against the dagger. Unlike Tywin, Stannis made no fuss about him carrying it. He wondered if that would change after last night. Whether he'd be ordered to leave it with his bow and quiver.

A passing guard would tell him so, he supposed. But as he passed through the dark corridors, the castle seemed strangely deserted. It wasn't, he knew that. He could hear the ironworks as he passed along the outside. But aside from a scullery maid or two, he didn't encounter a single person. No one who looked him in the eye.

Stopping by a window, he gazed out upon the east. The sunlight hadn't quite broken through the grey.

Too early for breakfast. It was a good thing he wasn't hungry. But where should he go? Perhaps the cave on the beach? The eyes of the Night King came to his mind and he felt an eerie urge to gaze into them again. What about the library? He only had ten minutes yesterday to explore it before Shireen entered for her lessons. Not nearly enough time to digest the two volumes of Old Tongue. He wondered if he could still approach Stannis about transporting them to Winterfell…

Tireisas smirked at the thought. He was in no position to ask favors. Even so, when he thought about the look on Stannis' face if he should inquire…it might be worth it just for that.

Dismissing the teasing thought, he came back to the window. To the grey light. It wasn't worth it. He knew that. And though he had cultivated many tomes of Old Tongue for the Winterfell library, he found himself not caring so much if he left Dragonstone without the two volumes.

He didn't even care to go to the library. He certainly didn't want to see the Night King in the beach cave, despite the eerie urge, and he didn't want to trek all the way down to the kitchens for a meager breakfast. Still he got up. He was dressed. There must have been a reason why. What did he want to see?

The answer was right in front of him. He took a final look out the window, to the east. It was still too early for sunlight. Nevertheless, he stared longer than he would have. Trying to see beyond the sea. After a few seconds, he turned and headed toward the biggest hall in the castle.

He found it after ten minutes. Despite his care, the huge doors creaked as they were opened, echoing in the empty, early morning. Tiresias halted them and slipped inside, tilting his head as he walked, his light footsteps echoing off the high ceiling.

The grey light from the predawn streaked across the throne room from the side. As well as from the glass window behind the throne itself, a single seat carved from rock.

Is it a throne room now? Or merely a reception hall? Stannis hasn't claimed the crown yet and Daenerys isn't here…

Tiresias paused on that thought in the center of the hall, gazing upon it. He sniffed deep. This place stunk of nonuse. Stannis certainly didn't make a habit of greeting his visitors here. Not that he had enough to justify it.

In fact, as Tiresias looked about, he saw boxes and crates in the corners. This was merely a glorified warehouse. The last boon of the Valyrian Empire reduced to a storeroom.

It wasn't a sentimental thought though. He felt more sadness when he entered the mined cave on the beach. The destroyed drawings of the Children…though he might feel differently if he sailed through the ruins of Valyria, should he ever be so unfortunate. To see such great structures destroyed and left to rot.

Structures built by slavery, don't forget. Greatness birthed from brutal savagery…

He conceded the point. But even as he came back to the grey predawn and the crates it illuminated; he knew it could be different in little time. Cleaned, with fresh torches and an army behind them, this place could serve as a base for more than one power hungry ruler.

Tiresias proceeded slowly towards the end of the hall, his eyes on the throne. Was it his imagination or his memory that seated Daenerys Targaryen there, staring at him defiantly as he approached? Glancing to his left, he saw Tyrion and his Hand of the Queen badge. To his right, he saw Missandei, announcing the titles…

Stop it. Stop it! That's not helpful. You've changed things. You don't know how different it all will be. You can't rely on those stories anymore. You know that.

But he couldn't forget them either. And as he paused before the throne and gazed down upon it, the Mother of Dragons, far shorter than him, stared up at him in defiance. In his mind, they regarded each other for a while. Tiresias didn't speak and he didn't put any words into her mouth either.

Honestly, she frightened him. And not for the first time, he questioned his decision to allow Jorah Mormont to flee Westeros.

It wasn't too late. They hadn't met yet. Shouldn't have anyway. Jorah was a tough fighter but was he expecting an assassin? Perhaps if he…

No, Tiresias. No! You can't regret that now. There's no point. Besides…if Stannis decides not to revive the dragonglass trade, the North will be in need of fire-breathing monsters…and the woman who wields them.

Tiresias ran his hand through his hair and sighed. Just as it wasn't the first time he had questioned his decision about Jorah, it wasn't the first time he considered running off to Essos to reverse it. It was a fleeting thought. He couldn't do it now. Mance Rayder was coming to Castle Black. He had to be there. He couldn't gallivant about the eastern continent beforehand.

His ears perked up. In the silence of the dawn, a pair of footsteps approached. Tiresias tore his eyes from the throne, away from the vision of a Targaryen dragon queen and stepped away, focusing on his visitor. Their footsteps were coming from an antechamber behind the throne. A hint of ash and spice preceded them.

Melisandre entered into the grey light, her eyes meeting his immediately. She didn't seem surprised to find him here and continued to walk, her steps echoing softly against the black stone. He remained quiet as she approached, keeping her gaze until she halted before him.

"Tiresias," she said with a nod.

His ears couldn't detect any mockery or double meaning behind it. No hints to his previous name, identity or world. It was simply polite.

It wouldn't continued to be so if he just stood silent. He mustered up and nodded.

"Lady Melisandre. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

She smirked, amused. "Does the simple notion of you and I sharing this room give you pause? Must I have a reason to approach you, Warrior Librarian?"

"I wish you would stop calling me that." A little bite came into his tone and he breathed to quell it.

"As you wish," said Melisandre, amusement still shining in her eyes. "Though it's certainly not the worst thing I could call you, is it? Warrior Librarian leaves you annoyed. The other name numbs you."

"What other name?" he asked with a calmness he did not feel. "Ever since I came into this world, I've had no name but Tiresias."

She nodded, as if to herself. "To others, yes. And to yourself in time. But that was not always true. When did you stop calling yourself Clark? In your own mind?"

The question was asked politely, but he couldn't quite answer it. He wanted to excuse it on his mind going numb, the forced calmness silencing him.

However, the more honest answer was that he just didn't know. One day, he merely remembered that he used to be called something different. And it wasn't devasting. He just quietly accepted it and moved on with his day. There was work to be done.

But that was not something he wished to share with the Red Priestess.

"Why don't you tell me, my Lady?" he asked back, mirroring her politeness. "When did you start thinking of yourself as Melisandre? Or did you have that name when you were born a slave in Asshai hundreds of years ago?"

A shadow entered her eyes before she lowered her head to the floor. She walked past him, halting as she looked to the throne. Where he had been staring a moment before.

"I was reborn in the Lord's flames, Tiresias. When I became his servant, I was renamed as his servant." She looked to him. "Much as you were."

"I'm not his servant."

"Yes, you are." Her quiet voice echoing off the black stone. "As Tiresias, you've worked to fight off the coming darkness, the great enemy of R'hllor. As a prophet, you've rid this country of those who would aid his work."

"I'm not a prophet."

She raised her eyebrows. "Is that not what you called yourself? Prophet? Soothsayer? Seer?"

"In jest, perhaps," Tiresias muttered. "But whatever I do, it's not prophecy. It's just knowledge of a future. Most of it irrelevant now. I'm just trying to act on it. As well as I can."

Melisandre shrugged. "What is a prophet, but a conduit for knowledge unattainable to men by all other means?"

He found himself rooted to the spot as she walked back towards him. "Do you not have any desire to hear what the Lord of Light has planned for you?"

"No."

Tiresias said it immediately. There was no need to think on it.

The Red Woman smirked. "Not even tempted?"

"I don't want to hear myself in a prophecy. Ever. I've seen what it does to people."

He didn't see the dulled madness in Stannis' eyes last night that he saw when he burned Shireen alive. But it was still possible…

"I'm not free from arrogance. No one is. But I'm under no illusion that I would fare better hearing my destiny from the Lord of Light or any other god."

To his surprise, she didn't rebuke him, declaring that R'hllor was the only true god. She merely gazed at him, seeing him more truly than anyone else in this world so far. As much as he disliked staring contests, it was easy for him to gaze back unblinking. Though that didn't stop the hair from rising on his neck.

The knowing smile returned and she stepped past him. He was left to stare at the throne as her footsteps echoed against the stone. Relief coursed through him and he exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath.

The footsteps halted. "Dragonstone will not be friendly to you much longer."

Tiresias paused his sigh of relief, turning to see her pivoted toward him. He met her eyes.

"Lord Stannis will receive a raven from the capitol tonight. His brother, King Robert, has learned of your presence here and will request that you accompany Lord Stannis when he departs for King's Landing."

She smiled. "I'm sure you won't begrudge me for that little divination."

A familiar numbness tingled along his spine as he took in that information. He breathed and held it, exhaling slowly.

"I see," he said finally. "Will that be an invitation or a summons on my part?"

"Is there any difference to a King?" Melisandre's amusement returned. "I don't need the Lord of Light to see that the prospect of visiting King's Landing again so soon turns your stomach."

"No, I suppose you don't."

She smiled, before turning and walking away. Her voice echoed along with her footsteps.

"A ship in the harbor departs this morning. It will run to Braavos. There you may find a ship to White Harbor and sail home."

As she came to the great doors of the throne room, she turned and regarded him. Her soft voice carried quite easily.

"You are not forbidden from leaving Dragonstone. Not today. The morning after, well…"

She smirked before nodding.

"Farewell, fellow prophet. We will see each other again."

With that promise, the Red Woman turned and exited the hall. Her scent of ash and spice lingered. It seemed to hang in the grey light, now tinged with gold.

Tiresias turned, walking past the throne, halting before the glass window. The sun was just beginning to rise, banishing the grey. Below, the harbor was barely visible, but he could see the sailors preparing their ships.

It took him all of three seconds to make his decision.

Without a departing glance to the stone throne, he exited the hall through the antechamber. Not knowing the castle well, his heart raced as he searched for his room. Nevertheless, he didn't run. There were people up and about now.

Finally he found his quarters. The sun was out now and a morning breeze sailed through the open window. He resisted the urge to pause and enjoy it. If all went well, there would be plenty of sea breezes to enjoy.

Gathering his belongings, he spent half a minute searching for his dagger before remembering it was around his waist. He couldn't resist a laugh as he rolled up the Stark armband and strapped the rucksack closed.

C'mon, man. Focus. You don't have much time.

It was fortunate that he traveled so light. After a few moments, he exited the room and made his way down the castle, making educated guesses on where he would find the harbor. He didn't plan to swim out from the beach.

However, he did have to ask directions at one point. Trying not to sound panicked, he received a silent point from a maid and proceeded on his way. He hoped the disinterest he saw in her eyes wasn't imagined. All he needed a gossip to thwart his escape.

It's not an escape. Stannis hasn't forbidden you from leaving. You have every right to leave.

Thoughts on actual rights in Westeros flooded his mind and were quickly banished as he passed the kitchens. His appetite picked a great time to return in force. He grabbed a bun, still steaming from the oven. There was no time to take an adequate breakfast. A few minutes delay and that ship could be out from the dock.

The smell of the sea now permeated the halls and he knew he was on the right track. Without breaking his stride, he unclasped his rucksack and placed the bun inside for later. If he wolfed it down now, it would just come up later over the rails.

Tiresias squinted as he exited the castle and walked onto the docks. The sun was now up and reflecting off the water. Upon inquiry, he asked for the Braavosi ship and was directed to the end of the docks. The tightness in his chest lessened. The ship was still being loaded and not quite ready to sail.

Thanking the harbormaster, he walked nimbly down the dock, avoiding crates, merchants and sailors. All of whom ignored them.

Except one.

"Tiresias?"

Shit.

Wiping the frustrated curse from his face, he turned to see Ser Davos, on his knees bringing a small dinghy to dock.

"G'morning, Ser Davos. How are you today?"

The Onion Knight finished tying off a cleat hitch and stood. "Fair enough, I suppose. Brisk wind this morning. Perfect for sailing."

His eyes went to the rucksack. "I suppose you'll discover that for yourself. Leaving already?"

Tiresias nodded. "Aye. I've said my piece. Whether Lord Stannis decides to start up the trade again…"

He looked up at the castle. "That's his business now."

It wasn't forbidden to leave Dragonstone, as Melisandre pointed out. But it was still sneaking away. And Tiresias didn't delude himself on that note. He left his defense for the dragonglass trade in a dire place last night. Running away now would only hurt it.

Was he really that scared to return to King's Landing? To be the focus of the court? To satisfy a King's curiosity? And what if Stannis decides to spread the word immediately that Lord Stark was preparing for a wildling migration? That they feared the White Walkers? He would be answerable to that. He'd have to be. No one else from Winterfell would be present to speak for it.

Tiresias returned his stare to Ser Davos and shrugged. "I'm just the librarian, Ser Davos. It was a pleasure to visit here, but honestly, I don't belong here. My work is in Winterfell."

Ser Davos returned his shrug. "And I'm just a former smuggler. I think you've earned your name more than I've earned mine, Mountainfall."

"You sure of that, Onion Knight?"

That got a laugh from the man. "Fair enough. Where you headed anyway? There's no ship heading north today. The fur trader hasn't arrived yet."

Tiresias allowed himself a small smirk. The man was no fool. Even with the joviality in the man's eyes, there was still a keenness to them.

And on that, he gestured to the side and walked. Ser Davos followed him, out of earshot from any passing sailor.

"I'm leaving this island as quickly as I can, Ser Davos," he murmured. They came to the edge of a small pier jutting off from the main walkway. "I don't care where. I can find my way back to Winterfell even it's not a direct route but I need to leave."

"Why so hurried?" Ser Davos asked, the slightest concern coming into his voice. Like Tyrion, the man responded to emotional honesty.

He looked directly into the man's eyes. "She terrifies me."

There was no need to say her name. Though it wasn't the main reason he was leaving Dragonstone, it certainly wasn't a lie. Ser Davos' mouth tightened as he looked to the water.

"As I said before, I've heard of her kind. What they can do..." Tiresias looked to the sea as well. "There were many things I was happy to leave behind in Essos. The Red Priests and their fire worship…definitely qualify."

They didn't speak for a few seconds. He sensed Ser Davos trying to find the right words. Turning to the end of the dock, he saw the ship to Braavos. Crates were still being loaded. He had time. So he turned back to Ser Davos.

"She brings comfort to the Lady Baratheon," the Onion Knight stated. "Lord Stannis…he takes her words, her advice, as well as any of his men."

"Suppose that's obvious." Tiresias glanced back up at the castle.

She called for my summons and here I am…

He looked back to the former smuggler. "You don't like her, do you?"

Though the answer was quite clear in the man's eyes, Ser Davos said nothing. He took that as permission to continue.

"Neither does Maester Cressen."

"Did you speak to him?" Ser Davos asked.

"Briefly." He smiled grimly. "He said the same thing about her that you did."

"I said nothing."

"Precisely. Same look in your eye and everything. Easy enough to read."

"What, my eyes?"

Tiresias shrugged. "Aye. The eyes of an honest man."

That got a light scoff out of the former smuggler, but his pulse slowed. Tiresias heard it easy enough under the waves hitting the rock and the brisk wind.

"When did she arrive here?"

The Onion Knight pondered it. "More than a year ago. Took no more than a month to gain the Lady's trust. To stare into the flames. I don't know what she said to her or Lord Stannis…"

He shut up immediately. As relieved as he was to speak openly of his fears of the Red Woman, he was still Stannis' man through and through. He wouldn't betray him. Not yet.

Still he wanted to ask.

"Does Lord Stannis still follow the Seven?"

"Lord Stannis doesn't worship the Seven," Ser Davos stated brusquely. Tiresias stared at him. "Not as long as I've served him."

He met the librarian's eyes. "The sept has always been empty."

There was no mention of the incident that spawned it. No reason why the foreign librarian should know it but it flooded his mind. With all the lore of this world, he forgot of the shipwreck. How young Stannis watched his parents drown in the storm. He lost faith in the Seven that day…

Giving no hint to that tragic anecdote, Tiresias continued.

"Does he follow the Lord of Light now?"

Ser Davos exhaled through his nose; but he didn't answer, looking out again on the water. Tiresias considered it. Stannis believed enough to trust Melisandre's word. Whether or not he said it out loud…perhaps he had already found a substitute for the Seven. To replace his lost and misplaced faith in the gods.

But then again, perhaps not. Perhaps he was only using Melisandre because he wasn't a skeptic when it came to magic. He certainly believed in the White Walkers when he was told of them the first time. She was a powerful shadowbinder with some useful abilities. Afterall, he utilized them to kill Renly.

Perhaps he'll utilize them again…

In this world, he had already used her sight to look upon him in the North. But it was only after the Battle of Blackwater did he look into the flames himself…

Tiresias looked over at the ship. The crates were nearly finished and he didn't have time to sort out this line of reasoning. Stannis was already on the path to extremism. Maybe he could escape it. Maybe not.

But he had to act now. So he cleared his throat.

"I'm not asking you, Ser Davos, to say or do anything against Lord Stannis. Indeed, he's admirable in his own way…but as long as he's influenced by the Red Priestess, I don't feel safe here. I certainly didn't feel safe back in Essos where they are more common.

"I'd wager you feel the same?"

Ser Davos didn't answer but he heard the affirmation all the same. Or imagined it.

"It's an extreme path they preach and the sacrifices they require…" He hitched his rucksack up, letting the silence sit. The Onion Knight looked to him.

"Ser Davos, I don't know what her presence means for this place or Lord Stannis. Sometimes a religious renewal is tolerable. Otherwise it's…I'm not saying something terrible will occur, but if you feel that it's gone far and you wish to smuggle yourself or someone else away for their own safety…Winterfell certainly isn't the worst place to consider."

The Onion Knight raised his eyebrows. "Winterfell?"

Tiresias nodded. "I'd put in a good word for you with Lord Stark."

It was an easy enough offer. He turned and began to walk back to the main walkway. Ser Davos fell in beside him.

"Why?" he asked.

"Cause you're a good man."

Ser Davos raised his eyebrows. "Is that all?"

Torn between a smartass retort and a sincere reply to the question, Tiresias was saved from deciding which when they came to the main dock.

"Father!"

They turned to see a young man striding up the dock. Tiresias knew his face. Saw it before it was engulfed in green flames. But his name escaped him…

Ser Davos nodded, clapping the man on the shoulder as he came to them.

"Morning, Matthos," he said. "Weather looks fair enough for repairs."

"Aye, we'll just hope it holds for tomorrow. Too much to be finished all in one day."

Matthos turned his focus to Tiresias. Ser Davos cleared his throat.

"Right. Matthos, meet Tiresias. Tiresias, this is my son, Matthos."

It wasn't the first time Tiresias met a dead man before. He nodded as he extended his hand.

"A pleasure, Matthos Seaworth. You work for Lord Stannis, aye?"

After a brief pause as his eyes shone with recognition, Matthos shook his hand. "I squire for him, my lord. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"I'm not a lord," Tiresias stated gently. "Just a librarian who's late for a ship."

He turned back to Ser Davos, extending his left hand. "But it was a pleasure to meet you. The both of you. I hope to see you again at some point."

Ser Davos shook his hand, though his eyes still held many questions. Tiresias wanted to answer them, but the ship would depart soon. And he remembered Matthos being more devoted to the Lord of Light than most. It wouldn't be wise to question the Red Woman in front of him.

"Farewell, Tiresias," Ser Davos said. "Safe winds and all that."

Tiresias nodded and turned for the dock's end. Behind him, he heard Matthos question his father. The conversation was still on him and so he tuned it out. It wasn't important. Also the ship was quickly approaching the cast off. So he began to speedwalk, sidestepping sailors and extracting his purse.

Twenty minutes later, he stood by the ship's railing, watching the island grow smaller and smaller in the distance. Stannis' offer to pay his way off Dragonstone rang in his head. Despite trying to appear calm, the Braavosi captain sensed a neediness from him. Passage off this island cost him more coin than he expected to spend on this excursion.

You're going back home. Relax. Besides, it's not you paid your way here. Oberyn gave you a free ride, no?

He breathed in the sea air, conceding the point. The coin he spent was well worth leaving Dragonstone before it was too late.

Cries from seabirds pitched through the air. Looking up, he followed their progress as they glided back to the island where the castle stood. Tiresias stared at it. His eyes were good, but not that good. He couldn't see the Baratheon flags anymore, the birds as they landed and especially no one watching his departure.

But deep in his bones he knew that Melisandre was looking his way, observing the Braavosi ship as it disappeared into the east. Would she play innocent when the news spread of his departure? Would she confess to warning him when Stannis received the raven from King's Landing?

Was she lying about the whole damn thing?

Tiresias hitched his rucksack up and turned away from the railing, dismissing the question. It was too risky to call her bluff. He couldn't go to King's Landing again. Not so soon. Though he wished he could have talked to Stannis again. Perhaps he could have swayed his mind further.

He snorted at the thought. Fat chance…though who knows? Melisandre has his ear and she believes in the Army of the Dead. That might be enough…

"Johann!"

Remembering to react, he turned to the captain who tossed him a lanyard with a key attached.

"Your cabin's ready," he grunted, before proceeding to the helm, not waiting for a thanks.

Tiresias pocketed the lanyard, reminding himself of his new moniker. The Braavosi captain didn't know of him. Didn't know his guest status at Dragonstone. It was a whirlwind decision to give him the cover name he used in the Riverlands.

He had no ill foreboding of it though. The sooner he became anonymous, the safer he'll be when he finally returned to the North. There were now those who hunted Tiresias. Those that didn't court him politely in grand castles.

The city of Braavos smelled surprisingly familiar to him. He supposed it wasn't his first experience in a lagoon city, where canals and stone intersected. Still, it awed him. In this city of a hundred isles, he walked off the ship and stared in wonder. It had been ages since he had seen anything not Westerosi. And it was undeniably refreshing.

But he couldn't dally about. Not for the least reason that the longer he stood about staring, the greater a target he appeared for pickpockets. So he wasted no more time. After finally getting the harbormaster's attention – the old man deliberately ignored him for a solid time until he tried a bastardization of High Valyrian – he learned a ship to White Harbor would leave the day after tomorrow. If it came in today. After tipping the old man a star, Johann received directions to an inn and disappeared into the canals.

When he arrived at his destination, he realized his bastard Valyrian was not too great. He could only pick up so much from the Braavosi sailors in such a short voyage. It took only a quick glance to realize that the harbormaster had steered him to a brothel instead of an inn. More to pretend that he knew where he was going than anything else, he turned about and walked straight into the tavern across the way.

There were working ladies there as well, luring the patrons back to their abode with drink and tantalizing murmurs. But Johann could ignore that here. After ordering a bitter ale, he sat at a corner and sighed in exhaustion, his weariness slithering out of him.

Maybe it was just relief from being onshore again. He didn't mind sailing but it could exhaust a man just standing on a swaying boat. A part of him was tempted to stay longer in Braavos for a couple of days. Explore the area. Maybe a certain house…

He rejected the idea. It was too dangerous. Besides, the longer he stayed away, the more he risked missing Mance Rayder when he came down to Castle Black. For that reason alone, he needed to hurry.

But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the slow moments when he could. He was on the ship's time now, waiting for it to depart for White Harbor. So he drank, letting the ale wash through him and he listened to the tavern patrons as they lived, oblivious of him. They flirted. They argued. They drank. A nearby group of laughing courtesans and sailors spoke favorably of a new play.

"I still don't believe he's dead!" The man who spoke was Westerosi. Somewhere in the south, though Johann couldn't place his accent. Perhaps the Stormlands?

"Who cares what you fucking believe, mate?" His balding buddy nudged him. "You still cheered when he fell, right?"

"Only 'cause they let me pelt the man with food as he did! Man fucking fell off his stilts!"

This fond memory sent the two men into fits of drunken laughter. The lady with them joined them, before asking.

"But you two are from Westeros, no? Tell me. The man is dead, yes?"

The balding man shrugged into his ale. "It's what they say. I'll believe it when I see his giant fucking skull."

"Man was a knight," his Stormlander friend slurred. "Won't see his skull anywhere. Buried him respectable they did. Fuckin' shame."

"Leaves a grave to be pissed on though. A massive one." The balding man laughed. "Good show though. The daughter had nice tits."

"Wait a bit…" The Stormlander refocused before continuing. "Though that was his wife?"

"Nah! His daughter was raped. His son killed."

"Well, where was the wife?"

"There was no wife, you idiot!"

Johann leaned forward. "Excuse me."

The group of three blinked and turned bemused to the quiet stranger interrupting them.

He smiled. "Hello. Couldn't help but overhear. I'm in the mood for some theater. Where might I find this show?"

Curiosity drove him to it. He already guessed what he would see. Still, he couldn't help it. Anyway, there were worse ways to pass the time.

After three futile attempts to explain directions to the amphitheater, the courtesan intervened and said she'd liked to see the show as well. Along with some of her friends. And so Johann found himself in a drunken pack of strangers stumbling their way through the canals. To see the evening showing of the new play, The Mountain Who Fell.

As the reserved one, Johann blended quietly into the group. The Stormlander and the balding man insisted on stopping and purchasing rotten tomatoes as they neared the amphitheater. Johann wrinkled his nose, but with the stink of the canals all around them, it wasn't too bad.

When they entered the theater, the two men threw down coppers for them all. Johann didn't fight it. He wasn't in the mood. As he sat, a perfumed arm linked through his. He turned to see one of the courtesans laughing as she leaned into him. She stopped as she saw his face.

"Do you mind?" she asked.

He was saved from answering when the Stormlander passed a handful of tomatoes to him.

"Just throw when he falls! You'll know when."

Johann plastered on a smile and nodded, turning to the stage lit by torchlight. Carefully cupping the fruit in one hand, he placed his rucksack down between his legs, along with the bow, not wishing them to be stolen. Then he waited for the show to start.

The balmy summer night rang with insect calls and audience chatter. The water in the canals trickled past. The drunken courtesans and their patrons laughed but it all faded to him. He focused on the stage, as all sorts of feelings ran through him; slight fear, morbid curiosity, excitement at the surreal nature of what he was about to see…

An actor strode out onto the stage, thrusting his way past the curtain, arms outstretched. All musings were lost to applause. Johann clapped automatically, but he didn't cheer. He recognized the actor, but didn't know his name. He wondered if it was ever given…

The man gestured to the crowd as the applause dwindled. "Ladies! Gentlemen! Filthy degenerates all! Welcome to this evening's showing of The Mountain Who Fell!"

Applause soared again and the man stood comfortably in it. Absorbing it all. Johann felt a slight admiration for the man.

He's certainly more comfortable there than I ever would be.

"Tonight, my friends, you shall be witness to the thrilling, inconceivable and absolutely true telling of the death of the great Westerosi knight, Ser Gregor Clegane! The Mountain Who Rides!"

Boos and hisses rained upon the stage. The actor gladly indulged it for a solid time before raising his hand again.

"And the brave Essosi warrior who brought about this devil's end, Tiresias!"

They started cheering as soon as he mentioned Essosi, the pride evident in their applause. It didn't seem to matter that Essos was a large continent. The Braavosi had their favorite in this story.

The actor brought out the other players in the troupe. Johann searched for Lady Crane but she wasn't here. The Mountain was a tall man who nevertheless toppled out on stilts. His followers were a motley crew of varying ages, all either scowling or cackling. They ate up the heckles of the crowd. Lord Lydden was there. The innkeeper was changed to a miller. His daughter was a beautiful brunette with a plunging neckline. Nameless and aged up.

Johann quietly laughed at every actor brought out as they were introduced. But he couldn't laugh at her. The real Layna flashed before him as she was when he saw her last. Young with numbed eyes.

He wondered about her for a brief second. Where was she now? Was she all right?

No. Probably not.

Coming back to the amphitheater, he refocused in time to hear the main actor step forward again.

"And I, Izembaro, shall play the hero of our story! Our comrade across the Narrow Sea, Tiresias!"

That brought back Johann's grin. Of course you will.

On that, the troupe all bowed and the play began.

The first part consisted of the Mountain proclaiming his might. His status as a powerful lord. With the backing of Tywin Lannister. It seemed the Old Lion was known across the sea.

He proceeded to kill several men in the first scene. With each man that fell, the boos and hisses grew louder but they fell silent as Ser Gregor monologued. Unsatisfied with this bloodlust, to the incredulity of his gang, he spoke of a maiden. A miller's daughter who lived on his land and rejected his previous advances. Swearing to the crowd that he would have her willingly or not, he stalked off the stage to applause.

Johann took a swig of his waterskin.

That man said more words in the last ten minutes than Clegane probably ever muttered in his entire life. Man's a good actor though.

Besides the more time they spent on the Mountain, the less time they would have for the man who killed him…

But came to him they did. After a scene at the mill, introducing the maiden, aged up to sixteen years, and her father, Tiresias entered the stage, along with another Essosi, a loyal traveling companion with mischief in his eyes. His stage counterpart spoke of his former life as warrior in Free Cities, the blood he had spilt and his hope to build a new life in Westeros.

If Johann believed the Mountain's speeches were too long, it was scant compared to what his character spouted. Izembaro must have memorized pages of this bullshit. It was impressive in a way. And legitimately funny. He found himself laughing softly to himself many times at the actor's interpretation of him.

He also found himself increasingly tempted to hurl his fruit prematurely at his stage self.

Corking this wanton desire, he continued to watch as Tiresias gave his sword to his companion, Nako – as Jory was now named – declaring he no longer needed it as they came across the mill, in his quest for a nonviolent life.

Then he and the maiden fell in love. And for the accompanying scene, Johann wished his skin was full of wine. The embarrassment, though secondhand and unbeknownst to the people who surrounded him, was palpable.

Still, his curiosity and amusement outweighed his embarrassment. And so he stayed. And watched as this poetically tacky version of himself and Layna try desperately not to show their affections.

The audience liked it more than he did. And sure enough as Tiresias left the stage with Nako, exchanging longing glances with the maiden, disappointment littered among the spectators. But they applauded still and Johann joined them, even booing with the crowd as Clegane entered from stage left.

It escalated quickly from there. Upon rejecting the Mountain's advances yet again, Clegane's men circled the maiden in a most choreographed manner. They prodded her, laughed at her and stripped her from the waist up.

"Them the tits I told yeh about!" the balding man to his left side said, prompting the Stormlander and their companions to laugh.

Johann didn't though. This play was funny when he saw Tiresias pompous and exaggerated. When he was portrayed by a ridiculous actor. Now he saw Layna again as he saw her by the stream. This wasn't funny anymore.

Still he watched. The audience gasped appropriately when the nameless brother came to her attempted rescue. The boy was stabbed through the chest, pulling red cloths out of his pocket. Upon threats from the Mountain, the miller sobbed and cradled his boy as the Mountain's men carried the maiden offstage. Clegane followed, leaving the miller alone with his dead son.

A voice whispered in his ear. "You all right?"

He turned to see one of the courtesans looking at him in concern. The one who had her arm linked through his.

Declining to answer, he gently extracted his arm from hers before returning his focus to the stage. As Tiresias and Nako reappeared, approaching Deep Den, he focused on his breathing.

Inhale on one, two, three…

He calmed enough to return to the stage. Here the plot thickened. As well as the comedy. Befuddled Lord Lydden appeared on the stage, bemoaning the lack of a scribe. Thanks to the machinations and cleverness of Nako, who slipped in several innuendos, Tiresias was offered the job and entered the castle. Nako followed suit, having talked his way into the kitchen.

Johann found himself genuinely enjoying the performance. Then again, after the previous scene, he was rather open to dick jokes. Especially those in rhyming verse.

The Mountain and his band arrived the following scene, set later that evening. And in Deep Den, they were unruly guests. Tiresias intervened once when they tormented Nako, but they switched their target to him. The audience grew more and more enraged as they mocked Tiresias and his refusal to fight. Lord Lydden tried to maintain the peace.

Then the miller showed. Johann received a nudge in the arm. The balding man had leaned over, prodding him.

"This is it, mate! The good part!"

With a great effort, Johann returned his smile. He turned back to the stage, where Izembaro faced the audience. His face went from shock to horror to rage as he heard the violation of the miller's daughter, no longer a maiden. To the applause of the audience, he turned and challenged the Mountain to a duel.

Fair enough, Johann mused. I was outside myself that whole time. Could be an accurate portrayal.

Agonizing over his broken vow to forgo violence, Tiresias took back his sword from Nako, who had it within reach this whole time. The laughter from the Mountain's men disappeared as they fought. Swords clashed and swung in wide circles. As their swords locked and they struggled, Clegane made the mistake of mentioning the miller's daughter, inspiring Tiresias with a burst of strength. He pushed the Mountain's sword aside and drove his blade into the Mountain's chest.

Applause broke out and the Mountain was still dying after it ended. After Lord Lydden found his courage, he strode forth, condemning the man.

"Now!" said the balding man.

Fruit rained on the stage. Johann couldn't speak for himself but the audience's aim was true. The Mountain's actor had lowered his helm beforehand and braced himself against the onslaught, lowering himself slowly to the stage floor. It was pandemonium.

But it ended eventually. And as Clegane was dragged off stage, leaving a trail of rotten fruit in his wake, the miller's daughter entered.

In a quick wrap up, she was relieved to see her father alive, having plead with him not to endanger himself for her sake. In learning of Tiresias' triumph, she rushed to the man, professing her love. Several rhymes later, he professed his as well. And through a final comedic manipulation by Nako, they all were invited to live forever more at Deep Den. Tiresias had found his new life, his balance as both warrior and scribe.

And with that, the play ended.

The Stormlander and the balding man began to applaud. The rest of the audience immediately joined them as the cast converged on stage for a bow. The crowd stood as Izembaro stepped forth for a solo bow that was just as dramatic as everything else on the stage that night.

Not wanting to stand out, Johann stood with the rest and applauded. It wasn't all insincere. It was a difficult role, Tiresias. And he played it with gusto.

Might have played it even better than me…

That brought a true smile to his face. Despite the painful recollection of Layna at a few points, it was an absurd and enjoyable evening. And if he were to be completely honest, a little thrilling to be anonymous, watching his bastardized story unfold. In the middle of an unsuspecting audience.

Johann wasn't tempted in the least to enlighten anyone of his true identity. He joined the balding man, the Stormlander and the courtesans as they sauntered back into the cannals to the brothel. His quiet nature went unremarked as they walked, the two men doing mocking reenactments of Izembaro and his troupe.

A clear memory from Clark came to him. They filled his mind more and more ever since Melisandre voiced his abandoned name.

This recollection came from Clark's travels abroad. More than one evening spent with a small group of strangers as they ventured out from a hostel. So they could split a fine meal and share the cost.

On that memory, Johann suggested wine and mussels on the water. The courtesans steered them to an establishment and they passed the late evening slurping down steaming clams and mussels in a spicy broth. He kept a steady hand as he poured cup after cup of wine.

Other than stopping a courtesans' hand from becoming too friendly and keeping an eye on his purse, he allowed himself to relax. To let his guard down. In Winterfell he was always working. Everywhere he went was a mission. Except for Braavos. Here he wasn't Tiresias. Izembaro was kind enough to take up that role. Here he was the man that wandered about Westeros the first few months before reaching Winterfell.

Tonight, Johann had no responsibilities. So he relaxed, allowing himself the reprieve with friendly strangers.

But he didn't forget. And not once was he tempted to miss the ship to White Harbor the day after tomorrow.

The day after the play was spent nursing a hangover and a sore stomach. He confined himself to the inn and did his best to think. He didn't expect to be in Braavos so soon. Or anywhere in Essos for that matter.

But in the Free City of Braavos, there were two possibilities that intrigued him. The first was the Iron Bank. In the evening he sat on the bank across from it and gazed upon that financial behemoth. Its influence probably greater than any other organization in the entire known world. It was a strange feeling to sit and watch it idly, eating a plain biscuit for a tender stomach.

Johann racked his brains, but he couldn't think of anything that he wanted to influence here. Besides, as a practically nameless traveler, he had no cause or reason to enter this institution. He probably wouldn't even make it past the front door.

Stuffing the rest of the bread in his mouth, he stood and turned his back on the Iron Bank.

Good riddance. Anyone's better off without you vultures. I certainly won't bring you to the North.

He returned to the inn for an early and sober evening. He had to rise early the next morning. Not for the ship though. But for the second possibility in Braavos.

In the predawn, with his full belongings, he walked silently through the canals. It wasn't completely deserted. The fishermen were out before the sun. However, as he walked on and on, the streets became increasingly empty and quiet.

Yesterday, he was comfortable sitting and staring at the Iron Bank. He felt no danger. This morning, though, his breath hitched as he stopped before the water and gazed out to the house across the way. The doors of black and white were quite clear to his eyes.

The rest of the world didn't fall silent. Birdcalls echoed across the air. The distant rowing between canals reached his ears. But still, his heart raced louder and louder in his eyes. He breathed in and exhaled.

One, two, three…

Unlike yesterday, he knew what he wanted from this place. He wanted to forge a weapon for the North. To convince the Faceless Men to bring a talented little girl into their own for training. One who could wield the Valyrian blade.

But he didn't expect to make the request today. Arya was too young. And besides, if he prevented the atrocities that afflicted her family in the show, would she still have the motivation to become the skilled assassin that brought about the end?

It was a variation of the same question he had for the rest of the children. Would Sansa become the strategist? Would Theon become the champion he was? Would Jon become…

Johann sighed. He was becoming distracted and he already knew his answer. It was too soon to approach them. And with the relatively short sail between Braavos and White Harbor, it wasn't such a herculean task to travel here again. To inquire this of the Faceless Men…

But you have no reason to believe they'll take her in. Why would they? Why did they?

Because of Jaqen H'ghar. Because he saw something in her.

And he can't see her when it's just my word.

The hairs on his neck rose and he turned quietly, staring back. The street was empty. He closed his eyes and listened. No footsteps were scurrying away. There was no one around.

No one…

An unamused chuckle escaped him. It didn't stop the fear that pulsed through his body.

There was someone there. He knew there was. As he gazed out at the House of Black and White, someone saw him. Observed him. For how long he didn't know. And he presented himself like a moron…

Calm down. The House of Black and White is…well, it's not exactly a landmark but you couldn't have been the first set of curious eyes to have gazed upon it. They won't assassinate you for that. They only give the gift to those who come inside and request it.

But as he returned his gaze to the House, the quiet trickle of the canals seemed louder. He no longer saw just the main house with the binary doors, but the structure beneath. The Hall of Faces, the great subterranean vault of horrors. Like a leviathan lurking silently beneath the surface. It would devour him if he got too close.

Reminding himself not to walk away too quickly, Johann turned and headed back to the harbor. The ship would leave soon and he was thankful for the quick escape. Arya wasn't the only one who wasn't ready for these people. How would he fair in the game of faces? He didn't wish for another to see his true self during this journey; to be an unwilling player…

The mask of Johann would slip off instantly, he was sure of that.

What of Tiresias though? He didn't feel like he was living a lie. Not for the past few years. That was his name. Both in his own mind and out. Besides, even if the Faceless Men heard the truth, could they accept it? Would they simply think him insane?

Perhaps that didn't matter though. As Johann walked, he thought of Melisandre. How his heart stilled when she called him by his previous name. If he went into the House, if he heard another voice it in the darkness…he wasn't sure if he could handle it.

Johann didn't look back at the House of Black and White as he walked through the canals. In between the echoes of his boots hitting the stone, he kept his ears peeled for his mysterious spy. There was no reason to assume that he was being followed. He heard nothing. Detected nothing.

But still he sensed something. It followed him for a while before letting him go. Though he couldn't tell when. His stalker was soundless. And after years of his ears and nose alerting him to everything before he saw it…that terrified him.

You could hear an owl's wing grace the night. Yet a Faceless Man could stalk you unawares.

Willing his fingers not to tremble, Johann hitched his rucksack and continued to the harbor, grateful to the sounds and smells of the market that preceded it.

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