Chapter 9

It's an odd thing about routines. Once someone settles into a new one, they can sometimes forget about how they used to live. When Clark was alone or not busy, he would realize with a jolt that he completely forgot what something tasted like, how jeans felt or how his coworker laughed. He tried to recall such things, but most of the time they were gone.

However, the anxiety of forgetting his old world was nothing compared to his apprehension with the silence from the Iron Islands. Six months passed and the realm was seemingly at peace. Ned Stark didn't speak to him about the manner, but he could sense the man's growing question. Would the attack actually occur? He knew that small actions could affect large scale incidents. He'd seen enough time travel flicks to learn this. Hell, he was even counting on it to save most of Westeros. But he just went from the Riverlands to the Neck to Winterfell and became a librarian. How the hell was that supposed to have changed Balon Greyjoy's mind about rebelling?

Perhaps he got the date wrong. But that didn't seem right. He read up on the current state of the Greyjoy family in his first week at Winterfell. Theon turned eight recently. That seemed about the right age for him to be taken ward. One year seemed like a safe bet. Once he breathed and calmed down, his apprehensions seemed to lessen. He had another half year to go. The first six months passed very quickly though.

Luckily for him, he had plenty to do during that time. He didn't intend to sleep on his new position from Lord Stark. The first week, he and Maester Luwin met with Lurs, the Winterfell carpenter. After a few days, they've finalized a plan, within the budget Lord Stark allotted them, for a new shelf layout. Three quarters of the shelves didn't need to be replaced, merely moved.

Lurs took his measures and began building with his assistants. Meanwhile, Clark and Maester Luwin moved the existing collection into different storage areas, including Clark's bedroom. The library stood empty and Clark took advantage of the empty room, ordering a deep cleaning. No books meant no fear of the volumes growing mold from the moisture from the scrubbing. He knew he probably wasn't too popular for suggesting the big job and so got down on his knees to help scrub. Plus, he got rum for the scullery maids and that reduced his guilt significantly.

By the end of the first month, the new shelving was ready to be moved in. They placed the new ones along the wall and toward the back, leaving the old shelves out in front where they could be more easily replaced.

Years from on. Hopefully, Clark thought. He thought back to the fire in the first season. A distraction for the assassination attempt on Bran. If anything, he at least wanted to prevent that bit of arson. Along with the assassination attempt, of course.

The new shelving matched the old and it was very northern. Practical, nothing too ornate with the occasional direwolf carving as an exception. Good material and built to last. After it was done, Clark walked through the empty shelves, not wanting to fill them quite yet. It was a clever layout and kind of beautiful in a way.

When the scrolls and tomes came back in their homes (and his bedroom was finally free), Luwin and he went through them, cataloging each one and placing it in its final resting place. Even with Luwin as organized as he was, there were still misplaced items and texts that he was unaware of. The cataloging took three weeks and yet, when it was all done and the library had all of its contents back, they were a little under half capacity. Luwin and him shared a bottle of wine that night. It may have looked like an understocked library now, but they both saw an opportunity to expand and the library was now able to support that expansion.

So Clark began his current endeavor: writing letters addressed to keeps all over the North, and even to holds in the Eyrie and the Riverlands, asking for information on any books concerning anything Northern. He began to write to the hill tribes, or rather the houses who interacted the most with the hill tribes, for knowledge and assistance on the volumes in the Old Tongue. He didn't actually compose the letters though. Luwin usually gave him a draft for the day and he copied it, adapting it to each recipient.

Knowing that this task would come, he had begun practicing his quillwork every evening before dinner. He wrote mostly nonsense that was quickly burned and tossed into the fireplace. Besides the fact that he usually stabbed the quill right through the parchment a few times, he also stained his fingers with ink quite a bit. He usually spent a good five minutes scrubbing his hands before sitting down in dining hall. But slowly, by the second week of practice, he became proficient enough that his hands were beginning to be ink-free once again.

However the library was not the only thing on Clark's new routine. The quiet evenings in his room the first month were filled with his exertions as he stretched and exercised. However, upon realizing he needed a better place and on the advice of Robb and Jon, he found another room on the ground floor in the stables. This place was unused, even by Hullen, the horse master. So with Lurs lending him his tools for the day, Clark constructed a simple gym, complete with primitive weights with a pulley system (just some substantial stones tied with rope), a punching bag (a cloth filled with sawdust) and a smooth ledge for pull-ups. He tried to stay as quiet as possible, but he usually worked out in the evenings when everyone was settling down.

He certainly wasn't buffing up. He didn't have the constitution for that, but at the end of a couple of months, he had noticed a change. His skinny frame turned lean and defined, his muscles hardened. He had more energy. He slept better than he had in years. He just felt better. It had been a long time since he felt this physically good.

It helped when it came to sword training too. He still took lessons with Jon a few evenings a week. He even sparred lightly with him. And although he knew that he was missing some subtle instructions and corrections that he would be getting under a real master of arms, he still believed Jon was doing well for his age. Although it was coming to a point where even he had to admit that he had to find another teacher. Jon Snow may grow up to be an excellent swordsman, but he was still just a kid now and Clark was beginning to win bouts, simply based on his age.

Frequently he wandered over to the training yard and watched the guards. It was ordered and seemed deadly enough. The captain of the houseguard at this point was a man named Edmund and he was quietly commanding, a very scary man. Clark watched the men training and besides taking in what he could, he wondered if he could convince one of the men to spar with him. He'd grown friendly with a few of the guards, but he wasn't sure if they would give him the time of day. Training in martial arts in this place wasn't like signing up for a course at a dojo. There were apprentices, stewards, squires, preference given to those who had a recognizable name and money. People had their places. Who'd spend their energy on a skinny librarian? Even one with a progressively leaner and meaner physique.

Maybe he could pass it off as a laugh. Get a few guys in the mood to beat up a bookworm for fun and learn what he could as his ass got beat. It was probably a dumb idea. He only knew that he needed some fighting experience before it was too late. His first time fighting a real opponent couldn't be with a Lannister, a Bolton or a White Walker. Too much was at stake for that.

In the meantime, he'd still continue to spar with Jon, simply for the boy's sake. Jon was still a mopey kid with his bastard status hanging over him, but he was smiling a bit more. Plus Arya was beginning to follow Jon around more and more. She absolutely adored him, although Clark was thankful that she was put to bed before their sparring sessions. He didn't think the little girl could keep the secret yet.

He may have been having reservations about approaching the men for lessons in fighting. However in other subjects, he found a teacher in the maester. Early on he asked Luwin about his chains and which one symbolized which learned subject. Black iron for ravenry, silver for medicine and so on. Luwin had a ring of Valyrian steel, which indicated the higher mysteries.

"So do you know magic, then?" asked Clark, one day in the library. They had finished cataloging and were placing the volumes back. Clark being the taller one, reached for the higher shelves.

"I do not, unfortunately," Luwin said. "Magic is something that has gone out of this world. At least in this part of it. During my apprenticeship, I had focused more on the history based on the accounts of uses of magic, rather than any attempt to change forms, control the elements or dragoncare. I found that to be far more interesting."

Clark thought of the Night King's fortress beyond the wall. How many of Craster's sons has he turned already? He shut the thought down and reached for another volume.

"Was it hard to earn that link?"

Luwin shrugged. "I suppose. It's a dying knowledge. Only one maester in a hundred have Valyrian steel in their chains. Most of the Citadel looks down on those who study it. Another factor is the texts themselves."

"What about them?"

"Most of the texts are written in High Valyrian. One needs master the language first before one can even start to study. To satisfy their curiosity about magic…"

"You speak Valyrian?" Clark asked, forgetting the volume in his hand.

Luwin cleared his throat. "High Valyrian. I can read it faster than I can speak it. As you saw, there are a few Valyrian texts here. But it's been years since I have spoken it with anyone. I'm sure my accent's atrocious."

"Could you teach me?" The question came quick and unexpectedly. Luwin raised his eyebrows, wrinkling his forehead considerably. "Please?" he added.

"I have quite a full schedule, Tiresias. I don't know if I could add Valyrian lessons on top of it."

"Are the children learning Valyrian, Maester Luwin?"

Maester Luwin peered at him. "No…why?"

"Their lessons will start in here next week. Now that we have the library nice and suitable again. If you or Lord or Lady Stark decide that they should learn Valyrian, I'll be sitting over here, with my regular duties. I promise I won't ask questions or distract the children, but please…allow me to sit from a distance and learn."

Luwin placed the volumes down. The slight suspicion that resided in his eyes during their first meeting was back.

"You, a man from Essos, need help to learn High Valyrian?"

Shit.

Clark shrugged, trying to keep the panic from his face. It'd been a while since he had a slip-up like that.

"The Common Tongue was common enough throughout the Nine Cities. It was the only language my parents taught me, besides ours."

"Yours?"

Clark nodded. "Mein Name ist nicht Tiresias. Wie ich in dieser Welt angekommen hab', hab' ich keine Ahnung. Eintag wach ich und ich war in Westeros. Ich hab' meine alte Habseligkeiten verbrannt und begraben. Und ich bin Clark kein mehr. Nur eine andere Person mit nichts. Aber ich kenne die Zukunft und es ist schrecklich. Ich versuche zu hilfen. Das ist warum, will ich Valyrian lernen."

He paused, meeting Luwin's eyes evenly. He had spoken calmly and quickly, knowing that his former German teacher would have rolled his eyes hard at the mistakes. It seemed to have the intended effect though. The maester's suspicion was replaced with curiosity.

"I've never heard that tongue before," said Luwin finally.

Clark casted his eyes down, reaching for another volume. "I don't see why you would. It's dying. There aren't many of my people left."

"My condolences," said Maester Luwin softly.

Shelving the volume, Clark shrugged. "It's the way of the world. Languages die all the time. At least my people aren't being massacred. I just know it's over. We're disappearing quietly. I left when my parents died."

The maester didn't say anything for a while. Clark supposed the matter was closed until he heard Luwin speak again.

"So why do you want to learn High Valyrian? Another dying language?"

Clark sighed. "I want to know everything in this library. I was planning on learning the Old Tongue anyway, once we get a tribesman in here. Also, there are old texts of history only in Valyrian. The histories of Westeros sure, but also of Essos, Sothoryos and more. If I'm going around and collecting these texts, I want to be able to verify their authenticity."

"And the children? Why should they learn High Valyrian?"

"I believe they should able to read the texts as well. Also, there's more than just the Common Tongue in the world. Not much sea separates the North from Essos. If the Stark children learn Valyrian, it would be a mark in their favor should they decide to trade with those in the Free Cities. They may speak different dialects of bastard Valyrian, but it certainly would be a boon to know the root language of it all."

Luwin tapped his fingers against the trolley of texts, pursing his lips. Finally he looked to Clark.

"I'll speak to Lord and Lady Stark about the matter. And if you're in the same room as me while I'm instructing the children, I suppose I can't stop you from overhearing. So long as you're able to keep up with your duties."

"Thank you, Maester Luwin, thank you."

He waved it away and handed him a scroll.

"Don't thank me yet, Tiresias. Wait until their mother and father actually bless me to teach the language of higher mysteries."

Clark was in the library, beginning his monumental task of inquiry across Westeros when Jon, Robb and Sansa came in for their lessons. For the first week, nothing but letters, arithmetic and history was taught. All in Common Tongue. Clark listened in a little during the history, but it wasn't anything too in-depth. He learned more from his nightly reading than he did during the lessons.

However at the end of the week, for the final hour, Luwin started to teach Valyrian. The children groaned but Luwin promptly quieted them and began his instruction. Clark hurriedly grabbed a blank parchment and listened closely. Luwin did not look to him once, but Clark was convinced that the maester was speaking a little more loudly than usual. Either way, his voice carried to his table in the back and Clark began to learn High Valyrian.

He kept quiet about it, not wishing to disrupt Luwin's instruction. Although the old maester, at the end of each lesson when the children were gone, walked to his table, his chains clinking. Without saying a word, Clark handed him his paper of exercises. Luwin read it quickly, pointed to a few mistakes and left promptly.

That's how his days went. He worked in the library, writing and organizing for the expansion. Occasionally during the mornings, he sneaked peeks at the lessons across the room. He studied High Valyrian covertly and also Old Tongue once a serious-minded tribeswoman named Sorcha arrived at Winterfell. After the children's lessons, she remained in the library with Clark, going over volume after volume of Old Tongue. Over several days, she made a guide to the runes, which Clark copied. He studied a single page for ten minutes every night. Sorcha stayed for two months before leaving, promising to return every six months to test the children.

During the early evening, he had some free time before dinner. He explored the castle and got to know more than just the houseguards. He greeted cooks, maids, stewards, the kennelmaster, whomever he could meet. He walked outside around the grounds and into Wintertown. He didn't insist on conversation though. People in town and in the castle were hurriedly preparing for winter. Also he still was questioned about his accent whenever he met someone new. Although he did suspect that the Northern burr was slowly coming into his tone.

Dinner was usually a quick affair. He was so thankful he didn't have to worry about it. More often than not though he ate alone. People may greet him walking around, but he was still an outsider and it was plainly obvious that most Northerners were either suspicious of him or didn't even think of him.

After he usually went to his private gym. The sudden workout after eating didn't always sit well with him, but it was the only time that most people were busy. Afterwards, he went to the training yard, deserted by nightfall. He either trained poorly alone or somewhat competently with Jon if he showed.

He bathed regularly too, almost every night after training. The springs he was shown was not the private ones used by the Stark family. These were the ones for the castle staff. He was the most frequent bather by far. He was sure it did wonders for his image of a tough guy, but he didn't care. He may be in a medieval time, but he wasn't ready for their hygiene standards. The latrines were bad enough.

Feeling cleansed, he always went back to his room for the night, usually falling asleep right away after a quick stretch. He tried reading a few times but it was a losing fight most nights. His days were full and it made for a tired man at the end of it.

Of course that wasn't always the case. One evening, after about four months in Winterfell, Clark was in his room, pacing the floor. He had just completed his final stretches and was waiting for the usual sleepiness to settle in. It was as reliable as clockwork. A full day of literary work, lessons, and training; all punctuated by an unbeatable drowsiness that allowed him to sleep deeply.

However this was not happening tonight. He dropped to the floor and did thirty pushups, something he could not do after a full day when he arrived. He finished quickly, a little breathless and stood. Nothing doing. The only thing that changed was that his arms were now a little sore.

There was something more to this restlessness. It wasn't going away. He sank into the chair and sat still, gathering his courage. He knew what he wanted. It just wasn't something he thought he would ever do.

He stood up and crossed to his basin. He splashed some water on his face, trying to freshen himself. He then dressed, pocketing some coins he took from his purse. He hoped it was enough. Having opened the window and determined that it was not that cold out, he left the cloak, blew out the candles and exited the room, locking it.

Five minutes later, he passed through the gates of Winterfell (saying hello to the guards on duty) and was walking into Wintertown. He strode calmly toward his destination, determined not to be embarrassed.

For all his time here, Clark had avoided the brothel in Wintertown. He'd received invitations from guards that he had befriended to join them whenever they went and he'd always declined, citing his miserly ways rather than any moral objection. He truly didn't have any moral objections. However that still didn't erase the idea that prostitution was not something he was totally comfortable participating in. Some undertones from a religious upbringing one can ignore and others just sink their teeth in and refuse to let go.

Clark felt this restlessness in Winterfell before tonight and had tried to deal with it himself. However, this world was not as convenient as the last one was for that kind of thing. No lotion, no internet, no disposable tissues. He just didn't appreciate how easy it was in his world to see a beautiful naked person for free. That wasn't the case in Winterfell and try as he might, his urgings did not let up on him.

Following the path that a soldier once described to him, he breathed slowly and told himself to calm down.

It's just sex. I pay. We fuck. Be polite. It's just a transaction.

He could hear the brothel as he approached. The drunken and rambunctious nature of the patrons were muffled but prominent on that quiet street. Clark came to the front door, only to jump back when four inebriated Winterfell house guards came bursting out. One of them was clearly the youngest and supported by two others. The remaining man stumbled towards Clark.

"Easy there, Tadd," said Clark, catching the guard by the shoulders. Tadd regained his balance and his eyes shined with recognition, along with drink.

"Tiresias," he slurred. "Gods man, are you…you here for cunny?"

"And a drink," said Clark. He didn't like Tadd. He was a friendly enough drunk, but there was something predatory about his energy. He knew the maids avoided being alone with him.

"Why didn't you come with us?" Tadd slapped his hand down on Clark's shoulder. To Clark's small delight, he didn't buckle. "I…I told you…you ought to come with…with…"

"I only broke down tonight," Clark said, his eyes going to the teenager supported by the other two. "Is he all right?"

"Jory? Yeah, he's fine. Just…just getting his ears wet. First time and all. Now…now he's a man! Not too good at standing now…tomorrow! Tomorrow, he'll be a standing man."

Clark crossed to the young man. "Jory Cassel? Ser Rodrik's nephew?"

Jory blinked and nodded once, his head continuing to hang. Clark glanced to the guards holding him.

"You should get him back now. See if you can get him to drink some water."

The two guards glanced at each other, then back to Clark, who sighed.

"Not an order, just a suggestion. Have a good night, Jory."

Jory mumbled against his chest. His friends hoisted him once and began carrying him back toward the castle. Tadd walked after them, turning around to call back.

"Next time your cock's up, let me know. We'll raze this place to the fucking ground!"

Clark gave him a friendly wave. "No thanks, Tadd. Fucking's not really a group activity for me."

Tadd laughed. "Suit yourself. Enjoy, you fucking twat!" With that, he turned and walked after the others.

Clark stood still in the new quiet, peppered with fun sounds from the establishment. His fingers were shaking. He was as nervous as his first time in college. Ultimately he just did what he always did when he was doing something new. He took a deep breath, put on a smile and stepped forward.

Twenty minutes later, he sat on a large bed, clothed only with a robe, running his fingers throughout his damp hair. He had just finished with a quick bath, which was a requirement he was relieved to see, though it was an extra halfgrout on his part.

The room was surprisingly quiet, the surrounding transactions, with their laughter and moans of pleasure, being quite muted. There was a small fire going and Clark gazed into it, trying to control his nerves. The madam, an older stout woman named Ambre with a friendly face and fierce eyes, had asked his preference. He honestly didn't think about it before. He knew none of the girls here, though he did recognize a couple in the waiting room that he had seen about the town. When Ambre pressed him, he answered as sincerely as he could:

"I'd like a kind woman, someone soft," he had said. "She doesn't have to shout or moan in ecstasy if she doesn't want to. I just…I'd like her to be tender."

He also asked if she could be at least eighteen. He wasn't comfortable forgetting that age nor did he want to be. Ambre raised her eyebrows at that, but said she had just the girl for him. After payment, she sent him off to the baths and wished him a pleasant and enjoyable time.

And so Clark sat, waiting for his lady of the evening, trying not to imagine his family's faces if they knew what he was doing. The fire was enchanting. He scooted closer, peering into the dancing flames. He thought of Stannis, Selyse, Sandor and others who had gazed into fire throughout the series…

Are you there, Lord of Light? Will you send Melisandre to burn me alive? Does she see me? Do any of your servants see me? Up here in Winterfell…

One of the logs in the fire cracked, sending sparks up. One fell on his arm. It didn't smart though…

The door opened. Clark turned to see a young woman with a liquor bottle closing it behind her. She smiled politely.

"Hello. Tiresias?"

Clark got up, nodding to her.

"That's me." He stepped forward, his mouth dry. "What should I call you?"

"Renei will do," she said. She wore a short-sleeved dress, that was tied loosely. The color was a faded green. She was pale and had curly raven hair that hung loose. She wore some mild eyeshadow and blush. Her eyes were a watery blue.

Renei strode over to the table and poured some rum into cups.

"I've never seen you here before," she said. "First time?"

"Aye," said Clark. After over half a year in this world, saying Aye now felt as natural as saying Yeah.

"You're the new librarian at Winterfell?"

Clark was taken a little back. "Aye. Didn't realize I was fodder for gossip."

She brought the cups over to the bed in one hand and sat down.

"No more than any other strange newcomer to this place," she said. "A few of the girls have seen you in town. Not me though. We wondered when you'd come down."

Clark raised his eyebrows. "When? Not if?"

"You didn't seem like a prude. I'm surprised you didn't come here sooner. Offended even. Keeping a handsome face from us."

She patted the bed next to her. Clark rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help smiling as he sat down.

"I couldn't afford your services when I first arrived at Winterfell." He took the cup of rum from her. "I was busy too. Still am. Expanding a library's a big task."

"And tonight?"

He shrugged. "Just realized it's been far too long since I've felt a naked woman…or even seen one."

On that, they clinked their cups and drank silently.

The rum's burn was a relief and Clark let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding.

"Thank you," he said, placing the cup down.

"You're welcome," she said. She pulled out the bottle. "Another?"

"Are you having another?"

She shook her head. "I don't have more than one drink with each man. I'd fall down before I could make any decent coin."

Clark nodded. "I see."

She reached for his cup. "But you can have as many as you can put down. Before, during, after…as long as you can stumble out when your time's done."

She was about to refill his cup when Clark gently stayed her hand. She met his eyes.

"No more for me, thanks." He put the rum down.

Glancing from the bottle to his face, Renei's smile turned teasing. "Are you sure? Thought you weren't a prude."

Clark shrugged. "Not about that. Just rather be able to perform. And I want…I don't wanna dull this."

Renei smiled. "Ambre said you were a sensitive one."

"Aye, that's me." Clark rolled his eyes. "Sensitive."

She laughed lightly before becoming quiet. She met his eyes and the only sound in the room was the sound of the fire crackling. Clark felt her hand on his shoulder, pushing him gently down on the bed. Renei crawled on top and their mouths met. A minute passed with deep, slow kissing, his hands running up her dress and onto her ass. She wore nothing underneath. Clark felt her hands as well as they opened his robe and ran over his chest, lightly scratching.

She sat up, lightly gasping, pushing him down as he tried to sit up. A few seconds passed before she reached down and in one motion, pulled off her dress. It took all of Clark's mental fortitude not to come immediately. She sat still on him for a bit, allowing him to take her in.

"Is this good?" she asked.

Clark nodded. "Yes." He sat up, holding her in his lap. "Yes, it's good." He was a little breathless. She smelled really nice. He leaned forward and kissed her neck, hearing her gasp.

As they continued, Clark forgot, for the first time, that he was from another world. The world he was in now was the only one to him. It grew smaller and smaller, until he didn't even notice the fire burning in the small hearth. There was only Renei. He knew the affection was fake, but for a while, he allowed himself to forget.

Clark was in the library, scribbling a note to Lord Mazin. The Lord had two volumes of Old Tongue. He had no clue as to the nature of their contents, but he was willing to send them to Winterfell as a donation. Clark marked the expectation of the two volumes, as well as the expected compensation for the delivery upon arrival. He then filed the note for Maester Luwin. The man kept every letter that came into Winterfell.

He was moving on to the next letter from Castle Hornwood, when he heard the door open. Raising his eyes, he saw Maester Luwin enter the library. Clark froze. Something was wrong. Luwin's demeanor was very serious.

"Lord Stark wishes to see you immediately," Luwin said.

Clark stood, placing the quill down. "His solar?"

Luwin shook his head. "The godswood."

Clark felt his heart begin to race. Was it happening? Could it…

He stopped himself. No use getting exciting until he knew what was going on. He walked to the door, meeting Luwin. The maester was peering at him with a slight suspicion, no doubt wondering why Lord Stork required the godswood to speak with a librarian. Clark pointed to the table.

"I'll finish this today after I speak to Lord Stark."

Luwin nodded. "I'm not worried about that. It's about to become more hectic around here."

"What's going on?"

A sigh accompanied Luwin's answer. "Lord Stark will tell you, I'm sure."

Clark grimaced. "Right."

On his way to the godswood, he encountered Catelyn Stark walking from that direction. He stopped, inclining his head with a "My lady". She nodded, but said nothing as she strode past. Her face was taut with worry. Clark walked on.

Ned Stark was waiting at the entrance of the godswood. He wasn't alone. He was speaking with Ser Rodrik, who looked worried as well, but determined and full of purpose. Clark hung back a little as they talked, waiting. Finally Ser Rodrik bowed and strode off. It looked like he was heading toward the armory. Clark walked forward. Ned turned toward him, saying nothing as he approached.

Clark stopped and bowed slightly. "Lord Stark."

Ned opened the gate to the godswood and entered. Hearing the unspoken order, Clark followed. He hadn't been in here in months. Never feeling like he should ask to enter, he nevertheless felt drawn to the place sometimes. Walking through to the weirwood tree in the center, he felt a certain spark. It almost made him forget how serious everyone was.

Lord Stark stopped in front of the weirwood tree and turned to face him. Clark halted as well. Ned reached into his pocket and pulled out a note. He handed it to Clark.

"This arrived from Casterly Rock," said Ned. "Copies were sent to every Warden in the Seven Kingdoms. Lannisport was attacked two days ago. An armada with kraken banners destroyed the entire Lannister fleet."

Silence reigned in the godswood. Clark felt his spirits lift and fall all at once. His story was proven and people died for it.

"How bad were the casualities?"

Ned sighed. "Not as bad as they could have been. Casterly Rock hosts a large garrison and they started mobilizing as soon as they saw the fires. By the time they arrived, the Ironborn were sailing away. They didn't come ashore. They want to keep this battle on the sea."

Clark opened the note and scanned it. He noted the neat scribble of Casterly Rock's maester and the elegant signature that didn't match the writing above. His fingers traced the signature of Tywin Lannister. His first sign of the old lion in this world. He wondered if they would ever meet.

He shook himself. He had bigger things to worry about. Judging by the look on the Warden's face, he did too. Clark handed the note back.

"It's just as you said," Ned said. "The fleet burning. You saw this."

"Heard about it actually," Clark said, before he stopped himself. "Apologies."

"It came true though." Ned Stark walked to the tree, holding out a hand to support himself. Clark took a probing step forward.

"Lord Stark..."

"The other things you saw…they're going to happen, are they?" Ned's voice was calm, but Clark could hear the weight of it.

"I believe so," Clark said softly. "I'm sorry. I wish that wasn't the case, believe me. I wish this Greyjoy rebellion was the hardest conflict you'll faced in your lifetime, but that won't be true."

"The White Walkers are coming then…with an army of dead men."

Clark looked at his feet. "Chances are they haven't amassed their army yet, but…they might be starting."

He rather hoped that the Three Eyed Raven was blocking their conversation from the Night King. He was counting on the Night King not to notice his presence in Westeros and adjust his apocalyptic schedule accordingly. It was one complication he didn't need.

Ned Stark looked at him. "I wasted months when I could have been preparing for them."

"Lord Stark," Clark said. "There's nothing more you can do right now. Don't concern yourself with the White Walkers or whatever's beyond the Wall. You have to deal with the Greyjoys. After you're done and you're back home, we can focus on preparing the North for what's coming. And if it makes you feel better, there are things you can do in the upcoming war that will help us all significantly in the future."

Lord Stark walked over to him. He seemed to have collected himself and he fixed Clark with his grey eyes, full of determination.

"What needs to happen?" The Warden's voice was low. Clark knew that no one who heard it would ever mistake it for weakness.

"Balon Greyjoy, his oldest sons and his brother Euron…I believe they should all be killed. No amnesty. Some died in the future I saw. Some didn't. The ones that didn't were huge pains in the ass and they cost your family and your allies dear."

Ned looked at him expectantly. Clark sighed.

"You're more of a military man than I am, Lord Stark. I don't know strategy and I don't want to give you any information that's incomplete. I trust you to act smartly with this. Just don't throw everything out the window to kill the men I told you to. Opportunities will present themselves and it doesn't take much for a man to die."

The grey eyes didn't leave him. Ned simply breathed, resigning himself to the next question. One that Clark did not expect.

"Do I die, Tiresias?"

Clark blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The evening in my solar, our first conversation, you mentioned that in your visions, the White Walkers were the concerns of my children…and not me. So…do I die?"

A hesitating silence followed this.

"Lord Stark," said Clark, his voice steady. "I can't tell you something like that. I can promise that I will do everything I can to stop the atrocities from falling on your family. But I can't tell you everything. Only what will help.

"I said it the night I met you and I'll say it again; White Walkers are not the only threat to the North. You'll have to deal with men as well. So for now, focus on the Ironborn, focus on your men, try to kill the Greyjoys and don't get yourself killed doing so."

Ned's stare burrowed into him and he held it as best he could. Finally Ned breathed and he did too.

"When we leave this godswood, we should not meet again until after I return. I'll have no business meeting with a librarian while I'm calling my banners and preparing my men. A raven will arrive from King's Landing soon. King Robert will want to order all armies to meet on the western coast and we need to be prepared."

"I understand."

"When I return, you and I will speak on the threats beyond the wall…and those in the Seven Kingdoms as well. And I'll look to extend your stay. It seems that the library will take more than one year to complete. And even when it's done, who better to keep it organized?"

Clark realized his mouth was open and closed it. Ned Stark stuck out his hand and he shook it.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Tiresias."

"Thank you, Lord Stark, thank you."

Ned nodded and began to walk away. Clark then remembered something.

"Lord Stark?"

Ned turned. "Yes?"

"Balon Greyjoy's youngest son, Theon and his daughter, Yara…they should live. I would offer to take Theon as a ward. When it's all over."

"All right." Clark blinked. Just a quick affirmation. No question from the Lord of Winterfell.

Well, maybe just one. Ned Stark was looking at him as though he wasn't seeing him properly before.

"Do you have any furs, Tiresias?"

Clark shook his head. "No, my Lord."

"Aren't you cold?"

He eyed the godswood around him, all wet from the rain the other day. Plus, he could see his breath. But it didn't feel cold. Just pleasantly cool…

"No, my Lord."

Ned looked a little bewildered, then shook his head.

"Maybe you really do belong up here. But you should get furs before the snows come. Winter's not kind to anyone, even to the ones born in this land."

Clark nodded. "Yes, Lord Stark. Your house words."

Ned almost smiled. "Indeed." Then he turned, walking away to prepare for the Greyjoy rebellion. Clark followed, trying to figure out his next step. He honestly didn't know what to do next. Warning Ned of the Greyjoy rebellion was a gamble that paid off.

However all he felt was a faint dread in the back of his mind. He knew his work had only just begun. Things were only going to get more complicated from here on in.