Chapter 10

Ned Stark and his bannermen have been gone for two months. It was quite a scene when they arrived at Winterfell. He was able to see younger versions of more characters; the Greatjon, Lord Karstark (though without the two sons he was so desperate to avenge) and to his utter excitement, Ser Jorah Mormont. At least he thought it was Ser at this point. He didn't have the courage to approach him. Not because of shyness, but because he was worried about the impact he would have on the events of the Greyjoy rebellion. Telling Ned he would have to be more brutal was risky enough. So for the vast majority of their stay, he stayed out of sight and out of mind.

It was a struggle with some though. His stomach lurched when he was in Wintertown one afternoon to see pink banners with flayed men riding through. Returning to the castle, he saw Ned Stark in the yard, shaking Roose Bolton's hand. His eyes scoured the rest of the Bolton company, seeking Ramsay. He realized how ridiculous that was. Ramsay was only a boy now, probably the same age as Robb or Jon. Still he hated to think what the boy was doing now to satisfy an emerging bloodlust. Probably dissecting small animals while they were alive.

He strode quickly from the yard. He looked very conspicuous standing stunned in the open and if he needed to move against the Boltons in the future, it would benefit him greatly if they didn't know his face. Not that he wasn't tempted to stab Roose in the heart now. However he knew that was not the correct move. Roose, for all his ambition and future treachery, was a skilled lieutenant for Lord Stark. He needed him on the battlefield and Roose would be loyal for now. It wouldn't benefit him to move against the Starks at this time. So he avoided the large crowds. He skipped the feasts and went to the kitchens for food. He stayed in his room, bringing his work with him.

Thankfully the bannermen were only there for two nights and departed early in the morning. Clark walked to the top of the battlements and watched them disappear down the Kingsroad. He hoped this would be a short rebellion with little blood lost on their side. It was in the lore at least. As to what was happening now, the news was sparse. The Ironborn continued to raid the coast, going as far north as Sea Dragon Point. However the tide was turning against them, beginning with a failed attack on Seagard. There, fate seemed to play out as expected. Balon's first son, Rodrik, was killed.

Life in Winterfell passed quietly enough. Ser Rodrik was left as castellan with Luwin as advisor. Catelyn took on more leadership and did not allow the castle to falter under the siege of winter. However Luwin confided in Clark, that this winter was not looking to be a long one at all and perhaps not even last the full year. It seemed that the long summer would began shortly.

One morning, as during most, Clark woke, dressed, and then went to get breakfast. Sometimes he ate in the hall. But mostly he preferred eating with the staff and guards. He entered the kitchen, grabbed a bowl of porridge, two sausages and an ale. He went outside and found his usual stone seat. He sat and began to eat. He was halfway through his meal when he saw a serving girl, Mal, cross the yard to the kitchen. He nodded towards her.

"Morning, Mal," he said, going back to his porridge. He swallowed a bite before he realized she had stopped right in front of him. He raised his eyes to her. She looked incredulous.

"Mal, what's wrong?" he said, feeling a little bewildered.

"What are you doing out here?" she asked.

Clark looked down at his plate then back to her. "Having breakfast," he offered blankly.

She blinked. "You can't be out here like this."

Okay…

"Like what?"

She blinked again. "It's freezing!"

Clark took another look at Mal and saw that she was heavily bundled. His eyes traveled to the other few people standing outside. The only ones who looked at ease were the blacksmiths, forever heated by their forges. The house guards looked stoic but still miserable. They wore a thick layer of wool under their armor. Probably more than one. Everyone else was wearing hats, thick scarves and coats. Apparently it was an extremely cold morning.

Clark looked at himself. He wore his usual trousers, boots and only a cream white shirt on top with the sleeves rolled up.

And he felt…absolutely fine.

He looked back to Mal, who was looking at him like he was crazy.

"I…" His mind was blank. He really didn't think he'd have to bullshit today. He finally shrugged. "I just wanted some fresh air. Haven't been out here long."

Mal gestured sharply. "Get inside in, now!" she hissed.

With no desire for an argument, Clark got up and followed. Mal shut the door behind him and led him over to an open fire. Once they stood, taking it in, she turned to him, her face strained with angry bewilderment.

"Is this your first winter in the North? You can't be out in that weather with just a shirt!"

Clark looked around and saw that her berating had an audience. Thankfully while a few looked suspicious, the rest seemed either amused by the much smaller Mal yelling him down or exasperated with his stupidity. After all, a true Northerner knew how to dress properly for the cold. He looked like a foreign idiot.

However, his perceived idiocy was quickly upstaged. Otis, a young house guard came in the kitchens. He actually ran in.

"Everyone! Everyone! News from the rebellion. Good news!"

Everyone turned to the young man, including Mal. Clark used the opportunity to move toward the exit, keeping his ears open as he did.

"The King's brother, Lord Stannis Baratheon, led the combined royal and Redwyne fleet and cornered the Iron Fleet in the Straits of Fair Isle. They sank the entire fleet and captured Aeron Greyjoy! He's now a prisoner under Casterly Rock."

Cheers erupted in the kitchen. Otis, done with the announcement, grabbed a serving girl and spun her around. Clark took advantage of the celebration and left.

He walked quickly, not daring to look back. That was good news. Not that he was expecting any different. Even with a few influences, the Seven Kingdoms had far too much manpower and wealth behind them to lose to the Iron Islands. Balon Greyjoy forgot that. Or arrogantly ignored it. The Siege of the Iron Islands was next. Clark hoped that Lord Stark would influence King Robert to execute Balon once he surrendered. It's easy to take a warning from someone when they're face to face. He was now far away from Lord Stark and Ned's honor might just cripple them again.

In any case, he wasn't in any position to influence the rebellion. Right now he had a bigger mystery to parse. As he passed the windows on the way to his room, he saw the beginnings of a snowfall. That sealed it for him. He wasn't sure what exactly happened this morning, but tonight he would see for himself just what was happening.

At the hour of the wolf, Clark went to the training yard. The snow was light but continuing to fall silently. He lit a brazier, just in case he was a complete idiot and needed to warm up very quick. Removing his cloak, he took a deep breath and stepped out of the heat into the uncovered yard.

He walked slowly across the yard and back. He wore no additional layers. Just the cream white shirt. He rolled his sleeves up like he had them this morning. He sat down in the middle of the yard. Under the falling snow and waited. He waited for the moment that always came, when the snow turned from fun and beautiful to cold and miserable. To shivering and discomfort. To numbness and pain that felt like sharp knives piercing the lungs...

At least twenty minutes went by. He didn't feel any discomfort. He picked up some snow and held it. In his bare hands…and the cold didn't bite. It remained cool but it didn't hurt.

Walking back to the brazier, Clark tried not to get too excited.

Okay, Clark. Think now. Is this one of the abilities that that note told me about? Or this all just delirium from hypothermia and I can't feel the cold?

He flexed his digits and they all responded normally. He took his knife out and threw it against the wall. It stuck there, a little far from where he was aiming, but he still had good motor control. He whispered the entire opening cheer from Bring It On without his teeth chattering and he hadn't forgotten a word. So he wasn't delirious at least. Everything about him physically and mentally seemed…unaffected by the cold.

Clark stared out at the falling snow. Seized by the desire for one last test, he took off his shirt and his boots, leaving him barefoot. He placed one foot into the snow…then another…and another. He walked slowly, feeling the snow crunch up between his toes. Finally he laid down, facing the falling snow as it began to blanket him.

It was cool certainly, but as comfortable as soft grass. Stretching out on the ground, he looked up to the sky and laughed softly. Out of relief he supposed.

The Night King could bring the winter storms if he wished. The coldest winter he can possibly manage. Clark grinned, allowing himself one moment of hubris.

But when you do, old man…you're gonna have one hell of a time getting me to shiver.

By the time, Clark had found his way back to bed, his hubris had disappeared, giving way to his usual anxiety.

Then again, it's possible that the cold he brings will be too much. Even with this immunity I've been given.

He resolved to purchase furs for appearances and not advertise his tolerance to anyone. Which was not hard for him. He was grateful enough for the cheat. He didn't need any attention for it.

"What's wrong with your cock?"

"What?" Clark said, turning to Renei. She was propped up on her elbows, looking at his groin.

"Your cock," she said, grabbing it gently. "The head's out, even when you're soft now. What happened?"

Clark looked down and plopped his head back on the pillow.

"I was circumcised."

"What?"

"The foreskin around the head of my cock. It was removed."

"Why?"

Clark shrugged. "It was a religious ritual for some where I came from. Others just thought it looked pretty and clean. What do you think?"

She frowned, moving it back and forth. "Looks strange."

"Strange?"

"Never seen one that looks like that." She dropped it, looking at him. "How old were you?"

He sighed. "When I was born. A week or so after." He rubbed his eyes. Drowsiness was settling in. "Did you not notice it until tonight?"

"Only the second time you came around and I got a good look." She crawled onto him and he wrapped his arm around her. "Saw you all relaxed. Didn't want to bring it up unless…I don't know."

She fell into a quiet, resting her head on his shoulder. They both looked at the fire going, no hurry to leave. He had paid for the extra time.

"Where are you from?" she asked.

"Essos," he muttered. Sensing her follow up question, he continued. "We were nomads. Spent most of the time in between the Free Cities, the bays up north."

He stroked her back lightly.

"What about you?" he asked. "Where are you from?"

She stiffened in his arms.

"I don't know Westerosi accents that well, but the northern one is getting pretty familiar. You're not from around here, are you?"

Renei removed his arm and got up from the bed. She moved calmly enough, but the tone was warning.

"Would you whore where people knew you?" she asked, not facing him.

Clark shook his head. "No. Can't say I would."

She took a cloth, wetted it and began wiping herself down.

"There was no good work near my family. Whatever I could do paid shit." She sat down on the bed. "Whoring pays better than anything a young girl can do otherwise. At least for a common girl with a fat arse."

Clark got up and took a damp cloth for himself, wiping his face.

"So why the North? Wintertown's not a big place. Probably find more customers down South or in Braavos."

She picked up her dress off the floor. "It's too hot in the south."

"You're right there," Clark said, nodding.

Renei pulled the dress over her head and down. "Also heard that the North was a honorable place. Figured I could keep most of my wages here. Not be cheated." She shrugged. "Course, that's most definitely horseshit, but Ambre treats me all right." She came up to him and grabbed his cock. "Who knows? Maybe I just like hairy men. Plenty of them up here."

Clark snorted. "That must be it. Does it disappoint you that I shave?" He extracted her hand and began to dress.

"A little. Doesn't really match the rest of you. Hairy chest, hairy arms, hairy legs, hairy arse." She smirked. "Clean face."

"Aye. Fair enough."

She poured water into two cups at the table. "So, next month, then?"

He pulled on his trousers. "Guess so. Unless I fall in love and become chaste."

"Oh? You have someone special in mind?"

Clark shook his head. "Just the library."

"You should come in more often."

"Once a month is all I can afford. I'm a librarian, not a knight after a tourney."

"I know the Starks pay their staff better than that. The house guards are here every week. The ones that are left anyway. They drink more than you." She handed him a cup of water.

"That's the house guard." He drank deeply, before sitting down to pull on his boots.

Renei sat back on the bed. He could feel her eyes running over him.

"If I didn't know better, I'd call you a house guard. You sure you're just a librarian?"

He stood, kicking his boots in. "Why'd you ask?"

She shrugged. "Never seen a man of letters with a body like yours."

Clark reached into his pockets, pulling out a silver stag. "Hairy men of letters can exercise just as well." He handed her the stag. "You know, I'd given you that even without the flattery, right?"

She placed the stag in her purse. She always hid it after her customers left. "Flattery comes free, handsome."

He snorted, pulling the tunic over his head and fastening his fur-lined cloak. A recent purchase and a steep one. All for the sake of appearances.

"Good to know," he said. "See you."

"Tiresias…" she called. He stopped at the door and turned. "If you come again in two weeks, and not wait a whole month…I'll tell you where I'm from."

He crossed his arms. "The rebellion's almost crushed. The men will be home soon. Sure you can't hold out?"

She shrugged. "I send money back home to my family. Could always use a little extra. It's been a little thin these days."

She sat down next to the fireplace, adding a small log to the flame.

"Where you from?" Clark asked.

She smiled, but there was a hint of sadness to it. "Gulltown. There's a cottage. My mother lives there with my sister and brother."

"When's the last time you saw them?"

She looked at him, her hint of sadness buried. "Any more personal jabber's gonna cost you a lot more. Most of it's not for sale."

"Fair enough."

Stretching her arms high, she yawned. "So, two weeks from now?"

Clark yawned too, spurned by hers. "I guess so. What will the castle think of me? You're turning me into a degenerate."

Renei smirked. "Would you rather be a septon?"

He shook his head. "No," he answered honestly. "Night, Renei."

"Good night, handsome."

The walk back to the castle was quiet, the streets dulled by falling snow. Clark waited until he was out of sight of the brothel and unclasped his cloak. The winter night air crept over him. He breathed it in. It was reinvigorating.

An image of Mr. Freeze from the Batman cartoon flashed through his head and he chuckled. Thoughts of pop culture have grown farer and farer in between and there were days that he didn't think on the sounds and sights of his old world. However that was one image that did not let up.

He tried to not let it to go his head, this new ability, this immunity to the cold. It wasn't as though as he had a home field advantage now. In fact, this immunity worried him a little. It was certainly a gift in the fight and survival against the Night King, but the indifference to the cold temperatures could lead to a lapse in judgment on his part. He couldn't be unaware of how much the cold will hurt ordinary people.

This little routine of power fantasy rush, slight chastisement and rueful thinking on the future accompanied Clark on the rest of his walk back to Winterfell (he put his cloak back on before coming into sight of the gate). Once back in his room, he sat down at his desk, lighting a candle and pulled a new piece of parchment toward him.

He had a little hobby now between exercise and bed. As much as he had let go of his old world, there was a part that still called back to him. A part that he did not wish to forget. A few nights a week, he sat down and wrote, to the best of his ability, the lyrics to songs that he remembered. The numbers of songs were severely limited. Nothing with too modern of a beat. No references to anything modern really. He sang in a choir in college so he wrote down all the Latin and Gaelic songs he could remember. The drinking songs. Some Pogues. He changed the lyrics to a few.

By this point, the desk drawer below him was dedicated solely to his recollections. He had no idea how he was to explain that to anyone who'd come snooping, besides being an eclectic singer.

The look on Ser Rodrik's face should he ever think that Winterfell is housing a singer…

Clark chuckled as he wrote. He didn't know why he couldn't let it go. The bouts of melancholy were few at this point. He thought of his family less and less. The distractions of his work, his monthly whoring and the oncoming shitstorm about to hit Westeros were more than enough to deal with. He was actually frightened by how easy it was to let go of the world he once knew. Sometimes he even found himself referring to himself in his head as Tiresias, not Clark.

For some reason, however, the music was different and as the memories of his world weakened, he found songs easily enough. He continued to write into the night.

Two weeks later, Clark was in his hideaway gym, hanging full extended from the rafter.

Just one more…come on, you filthy motherfucker, just one more…

He inhaled and brought himself up to the rafter, holding himself there for a few seconds before ending the workout as he usually did, pulling himself further so he could sit on top. He sat on the rafter, trying to catch his breath. Finally when he could finally comfortably breathe with his mouth closed, he jumped down, landing lightly on the floor. After the final stretch, he drank heavily, pulling from his waterskin.

The climb onto the rafters was not just assisted by his increased strength. The tingling in his fingers the first night doing pull-ups returned frequently and it manifested into bouldering and climbing capabilities that were definitely not present beforehand.

He had rock climbed before, but this was new. Several months passed since that first night. His fingers were fishhooks. His body didn't weigh heavily on him as he ascended. He sometimes went on the outside of the castle walls, where patrols were sparse and bouldered for a solid hour on the cold stone. Not all at once, but still. He founded edges and rough patches that would have alluded him previously, but now served him well. He climbed high, either landing in the soft snow or, later on when he was feeling more courageous, onto the battlements on top.

It was very exciting and it more than made up for the callouses that had formed on his hands formed for the last few months.

Clark exited the stables. He was just about to head to the springs, when he hear a cheer erupt from the forge. Trying to figure out what was going on, he turned around, only to hear another cheer erupt from the kitchens behind him. Slowly the whole castle seemed to cheer, as whatever merry news spread like wildfire. He wiped his face with his furs and went to the kitchens.

The blast of noise and warmth hit him hard. Celebrations were loud from the cooks, the maids and all who were in the middle of a late dinner. Wine and ale were being poured liberally, but carefully as it was still winter. There were hugs all around and smiles. Clark had never seen the Northerners this openly happy.

He turned to his left and saw Mal, hugging her friend Ginn and cheering. He approached her.

"Mal? Ginn?" he called over the noise. "What's going on?"

"You don't know?" Mal called back, smiling.

Clark shook his head.

"The rebellion's over! We won!" she said.

"What'd you mean? What happened?" Clark said, stopping himself from asking outright the fates of the Greyjoys.

"I don't know," Mal said. She pointed to Saul, an older houseguard, who was currently drinking heavily with the cooks. "He just came in and told us it's all over."

God, don't I wish.

"Thank you, Mal" he said, before walking over to Saul. His interactions with Saul were brief. The man was rather taciturn. However, this evening the man's face was open and red with drink already. As Clark stopped in front of him, the man's eyes locked onto him.

"Tiresias! Have a drink! It's a good day. A good night!" he said, handing Saul a full ale.

"Thank you, Saul." Clark drank his ale. He saw Saul about to chide him for taking a small sip and spoke first.

"I wasn't here when you came in."

"What?"

"I wasn't here when you came in," Clark repeated louder. "I heard we won, but what happened?"

"There was a siege," said Saul. He let go of a cook and sat down. Clark joined him. "Lord Stark and the King had Pyke. The squids were all outnumbered, ten to one! On the final assault, there was a breach in the walls. Thoros of Myr, a foreign prick like yourself, led the charge."

He burped loudly, to the disgust of some onlookers and the applause of others. Saul perked up, realizing he had an audience.

"Not to be left behind, the North had its own warrior follow closely; Ser Jorah Mormont charged with the mad priest and they opened the way for our Lord Stark and his troops. The second son of Balon, Maron Greyjoy, was killed in the siege before Northern steel could touch him. A falling tower crushed him."

A small cheer went all the room. Clark looked around and saw no pity for a young man killed by his father's prideful rebellion. Saul went on.

"Lord Stark and his troops fought their way, putting down every last fighting squid they could find. The King joined them with a few of his Kingsguard and they made their way to the throne room, when King Squid himself sat, Balon Greyjoy."

Hisses went around the kitchen. Saul ate it up.

"He surrendered, tossing his crown to the floor and pled for amnesty. The King strode forward and demanded the remaining Greyjoy children to be brought forth. Theon and Yara were accounted for and then taken into custody. King Robert told Balon that his children will live, but a rebelling lord could not be allowed to breathe. He was brought to the center of the throne room. They didn't allow him to cross the bridges to the courtyard so that he may jump of his own volition.

"Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, strode forward and asked to be the King's Justice that day and take Balon's head. He had won glory in battle, but the rebellion had started in Lannisport, his father's lands. Also, why should a normal man kill a King, when there's a perfectly fine Kingslayer in the room!"

Laughter erupted from the crowd, with a few groans interspersed. Clark just sat listening.

"Balon Greyjoy was asked for his last words. He simply said, 'The land may stand tall now, but the sea is forever. What is dead may never die.' Or something like that."

More hisses from the peanut gallery.

"The Kingslayer took his head, with a sword still bloody from the warriors of Pyke." He stood up, raising his cup. "To the Greyjoys and their Ironborn, the fools who thought to fight the wolves in winter! Long may they swim!"

Cheers rang in the kitchen. His story done, Saul drained his cup and made to reconnect with the cook he was ogling. Clark walked to him, grabbing his arm.

"What's this, then?" asked Saul, looking annoyed.

"Saul, what about Euron Greyjoy?"

"Euron Greyjoy?"

"Yes, Euron Greyjoy, Balon's brother. Is he alive? Dead? Missing?"

Saul furrowed his eyebrows, thinking.

"Don't know," he said. "Letter didn't say nothing about him."

Fear must have shown on Clark's face. Saul clasped him on the shoulder.

"No worries, skinny man! Lots of things happened that day. Can't all fit into one letter. If King Robert or Jaime Lannister didn't spare Balon's life, they sure as shit won't spare the life of the fucker who burned Lannisport."

"So they might have gotten him?"

Saul shrugged. "Probably. Not many ships he could have escaped on anyhow. Lord Stannis sank most of them." He laughed, shaking Clark's shoulder. He grabbed a full cup of ale from the table and pressed it into Clark's hand. "Drink, tonight, man. Drink! If you're with Winterfell and all the people here, drink with us!"

Clark forced a smile. "All right, Saul." He drained his cup and accepted another right away. However when he was out of sight, he placed the ale down and made a quiet exit. Later that night in the bath, Clark sat in the steaming water, pondering Euron's possible survival.

With the right warning, we could probably work around him. As long as we can take him out on land though. That fleet of his was a son of a bitch.

He sighed and sank below the water.

Hopefully Lord Stark hunted him down after, if he wasn't killed during the battle. Maybe he could gift him to Roose Bolton.

Coming back up, he stepped out and began drying himself.

Don't even joke about that, Clark. You have actual sadists to deal with here. Letting some swashbuckling, raping motherfucker suffer is just you indulging yourself. It won't save lives, it'll just distract you.

As he sank into bed that night, Clark heard the continued celebrations around him. He allowed himself a small fist pump for Balon's death. When Theon comes to Winterfell, hopefully there'll be a lot less pressure from his dead daddy to betray the Starks. Then again, that was the issue. His betrayal was a vital step in his journey to the man defending Bran in the godswood against the Night King and his minions. He would have to get Theon from cocky insecure boy to steadfast loyal man without the torture from Ramsay.

He scratched his chest, thinking. It would be a delicate dance. The moves he was making probably guaranteed that most of the characters personalities would develop differently than in the show. And while he preferred them alive, he also needed them strong for what was coming.

A giggling shriek erupted in the hallway and was silently silenced by a muffled moan. Clark turned over. Just take it step by step. He had time. Ned Stark would be back soon and they would work to prepare the North. In the meantime, he did not envy all those drinking heavily tonight. Breakfast tomorrow was going to be accompanied by a record amount of hangovers.

It took the Stark army six weeks to arrive back at Winterfell. Edmure Tully arrived with a small contingent of soldiers along Ned Stark, in order to visit Catelyn. Most of the households north and east of Winterfell stopped as well for a small feast of celebration. Unfortunately for Clark, this also included the Boltons. So he isolated himself once again in his room, going only to the kitchen and latrine. However due to a stroke of luck, Roose Bolton left the following day with his troops, reasoning that the demands of winter meant he could not stay longer than necessary. Even for a short winter like this one.

In the morning, Clark took the pleasure of watching his banners march away from the battlements. During the rebellion, he had wondered about Domeric Bolton. He wasn't sure if the show mentioned him or whether they just cut him out completely. In the library, he had found a book of lineages for the great houses of the North. Turning to the Bolton pages, he ran his fingers down the lineage, all the way to Roose Bolton. There were no children listed.

So…Ramsay is the only son. Soon he'll become a terror around the Dreadfort…

The notion of only facing Ramsay and Roose did not comfort him greatly as he watched the flayed man disappear over the hills. He had no idea where to find Ramsay. Roose Bolton was in the Dreadfort. And if the show was any indication, the Bolton soldiers were ones who took great pleasure in raping and torturing their enemies. If he killed Roose, how would his men react? Was he keeping them in line?

Then again, the Stark soldiers raped and killed too. The three hanging women who had serviced House Lannister came to his mind. He turned to the courtyard to see it full of soldiers. Were the three who mocked Brienne here now? Their faces were not clear in his mind.

He took one last look at the departing Boltons and stepped down from the battlements. There was time to deal with Roose and Ramsay and any other mischievous sadists that their castle had to offer. Besides, their departure meant that he could walk and see the other lords in the North. Lord Umber, Karstark, Glover and Ser Jorah all elected to stay one more night.

That meant another rowdy gathering in the Great Hall. The fact they were back on rations didn't dim the Northmen's enthusiasm. They still poured the ale and wine freely. Less food only meant that they got drunk quicker. Clark sat in the corner with Jon Snow, Hullen the horsemaster and Barth the brewer. A prime seat to bear witness to sodden soldiers. Glancing to the front table, Clark saw Catelyn Stark's mouth grow thinner and thinner. This feast was wearing at her patience.

It wasn't all the men's fault though. True to the events of the story, Ned Stark had brought a young Theon Greyjoy back to Winterfell. The second time Ned went off to war and brought back someone else's son. Although at least, Theon was openly of noble birth.

Clark watched Theon at a distance in the yard today. Robb and he were shooting arrows. Though he still had some cocky defiance to him, the pain of losing most of one's family and becoming a hostage was still fresh. Theon carried a bit of melancholy with him, the same that hung over him when he spoke to Luwin for the last time. Aeron Greyjoy, Theon's youngest uncle, now sat as Lord of the Iron Islands and Yara was allowed to return home. He would decide what to do about Theon later. If the boy even allowed him to approach. One sure thing though; he would not, under any circumstances, tell the boy how lucky he was to be the Stark's prisoner or that he was the one who encouraged his father's execution...

Theon was sitting next to Robb, who was conversing enthusiastically with him. He was actually receptive to Robb and Clark could see the beginnings of their strong friendship. Clark wasn't the only one to notice though. He turned to his right and saw Jon looking toward the front table as well, before going back to his steak and ale pie.

And by going back, he actually was just pushing it around with his fork.

Clark leaned over to him. "What's wrong, Jon?"

Jon kept his eyes down. "Nothing."

Barth caught his eye and shrugged. Taking a drink of ale, Clark decided to go for it.

"Your brother's not going to forget you."

The secret little dragon stabbed his pie. "He already has."

"Theon is almost as young as you and he has been taken from his home. Most of his family has been killed, including all of his brothers. It's a hard situation and Robb is doing a good thing, befriending him. Theon needs a friend."

Jon breathed in and held it. Clark had seen him doing the exercise a few times already and he was glad to have helped the boy. He was only sorry Jon was in a situation where he needed it. Jon breathed out, staring ahead. Clark waited for him.

"They found room for Theon," he said quietly. Clark had to strain to hear him. "Up there. There's no place for me during the feasts. I'm smaller than Theon. And they couldn't find room."

Clark glanced at Hullen and Barth, who were graciously pretending to be very deaf. He leaned in so they really wouldn't hear.

"The people who love you will always have room for you," he muttered. "Your father, Robb, Arya…Bran and Sansa when they both grow up a little." Jon gave a small laugh against his will. Clark gestured to the hall.

"This thing, Jon, is horseshit." Jon looked a little taken back at the swearing but kept listening. "We have to follow rules here. But your family, your real family, will always have room for you. Love isn't something that is limited to only a few people at a time. It grows as you do. You can always love more people. Robb loves his father, his mother, his sisters and his brothers. If Theon becomes his friend, he may love him too. But he'll always be your brother. He'll always have a place for you."

Jon swallowed and breathed. His chest heaved a little as he stared forward. Clark looked around and whispered:

"It just won't be at a crowded feast under the eyes of a cranky stepmother."

Jon started laughing, in relief more than anything. The tension broken, Clark drained his cup.

"Anyway, I was serious. This hall is far too crowded for me. Wanna come to the training yard and spar?"

Barth and Hullen heard that and looked surprised. Jon and Clark have been quiet about it after all, but Clark still expected some rumors to get out.

Jon looked skeptical. "I don't know. The soldiers are all there. Ser Rodrik says we're supposed to stay out of their way."

"The soldiers are all here and drunk. Come on, Jon. It'll be fun. Cheer you up."

After a minute and a few hurried bites of pie, Jon agreed. They exited the Great Hall and made their way down to the training yard. With all the soldiers in Winterfell, it wasn't quite deserted. However everyone was busy drinking and singing.

Clark and Jon picked up a couple of training swords and found an isolated corner of the yard. They spent the first five minutes stretching. Jon saw him one day and started copying him. It wasn't as though Westeros had never heard of stretching, but it was not thought as a regular part of exercise. Jon said he had to stretch quickly before Ser Rodrik showed. To avoid questions.

Afterwards, they took their positions. Jon had yet to hit puberty, but he was still growing in strength and agility quickly. He slowed down for Robb, but in the secret spars with the librarian, Tiresias, he was comfortable enough to hit hard and fast.

Jon went first, swinging toward him. Clark blocked and counterattacked. They continued for a while. They varied their speeds. They tried different strikes. Sometimes it was no bars hold.

Clark took it in stride. The regular exercise and sparring did him wonders. He still had no idea how he would fare against an opponent who was an adult or an experienced fighter. But he could see himself lasting for a little while.

It was gradual, but over the last few months, he felt himself becoming cautiously optimistic. It wasn't just that he was able to incorporate moves he witnessed from the house guard's scrimmage. It wasn't just he was growing stronger from the exercise. The instinct that saved him at the inn that first week in Westeros was there when he trained.

Sometimes in the first month, Jon's sword would hit and leave a big bruise but eventually he dodged every hit he couldn't block. His dodges became more and more graceful. His grip on the sword was a little weird, but after Jon corrected it, it felt very natural to grasp it. Dueling with it became more fun. He felt an energy course through him as he trained. Sometimes the instinct felt foreign, helpfully bending his body to its will. Other times it wasn't even noticeable.

The sword wasn't the only weapon he tried. Well, in truth he tried only two more but they were fun. Jon showed him the staffs. He also shot in the archery range on his own, but for now it was a wooden sword with Jon Snow, cheering him up after a downer of a feast.

Behind them, Clark heard a group wander into the training yard, laughing. He kept his attention to Jon. They were out of the way. It was not their business.

They slowed down a little. Jon wanted to work on his ripostes and Clark indulged him. He swung his sword to Jon at quarterspeed, who blocked it, bringing his blade down to knock his sword out of his hand. Clark released his weapon, letting it fall with the snow.

"Well done, Jon" he said.

His words were drowned out by loud cheers and whistles. He turned to see the group of soldiers who had wandered into the training yard. Some were Stark men he recognized, some others he didn't. One came forward, a mug in one hand.

"Tiresias? Gods man, come here!" Clark was wrapped in a bear hug. The enormous man was called Gord. A friendly cheery man who loved his mother dearly. She lived in Wintertown. Clark genuinely returned the hug and they separated.

"Glad to see you made it back alive, Gord."

"Me too, believe me! Didn't see you last night. What are you doing out here?"

Clark picked up the wooden sword on the ground. "Jon and I were just having a bit of a spar."

Gord laughed. "A spar? Fuck me. I didn't know you fought. I thought you were a librarian?"

Clark shrugged. The man attitude was still friendly. "I have two hands, Gord. They can pick up a sword as well as a book."

"Not that well! Boy just disarmed you? We just saw."

Clark smiled and looked to Jon, who was looking like he wanted to disappear.

"He did," Clark said. "He's a very talented swordsman. He'll grow to be better than any of us."

Gord laughed. "I believe it! Lad has a fierce look in his eye!"

The teasing was good-natured. However it was hard for an eight-year-old to see that when everyone else laughing is so much bigger. Clark saw Jon's face fall.

A red-bearded soldier that Clark didn't recognize spoke up. "Is that how you Stark men train? Twirling sticks with little bastards? You lot ought to try fighting real men sometime."

The soldiers from Winterfell laughed, but still had to held back by the others. Clark's eyes were still on Jon. They could dismiss themselves and walk away. That would be the smart thing to do. However, there was an energy in the yard that Clark couldn't dismiss. It was calling him to do something potentially very stupid.

Deciding to follow that instinct, Clark turned back to the soldiers.

"Like you?" he asked.

Redbeard looked at him like he didn't expect Clark to actually speak. "Like me what?"

"Are you a man? Will you spar with me? Hand to hand?"

There was a few seconds of silence before the group descended into laughter.

"Why?" said Redbeard, wiping tears from his eyes. "You're no soldier, no guard. You wanna get your arse pummeled?"

Clark shrugged. "If that's what happens."

"Tiresias…" Gord stepped forward, still smiling but placing a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, man. You don't want this."

"It's just a spar, Gord," Clark said, his eyes still on the red-bearded man. "What's your name?"

Redbeard took a swig from his wineskin. "Anthor Apperford. Sworn to House Glover."

"Well, Anthor, why not show us all how real men should fight?," Clark said smiling. He kept his tone light.

"I'll be doing Winterfell a disservice fighting you, pretty man. You'll break your hands punching me. Won't be able to turn them pages."

The men from House Glover and others laughed, while the ones from Winterfell were quiet. Some were still smiling, but they were sobering quickly. Clark stepped forward, pushing Gord's hand off his shoulder.

"That's a nice excuse there, Apperford. Never thought I'd meet a big man too scared to fight a human twig."

Anthor looked to him, then down laughing quietly. But when he raised the wineskin again to take another swig, his eyes were different and very focused on him.

And with that dumbassery, I've sealed my fate. And that's fine, I need fighting experience if I'm going to be any use when they come. Getting pummeled will be a lesson in and of itself.

That's what he told himself at least.

After he drained the last of his drink, Anthor tossed the skin to the man next to him. No one spoke for a bit.

"Hand to hand?" he asked.

"That's right," said Clark. He nodded to an open area in the yard, where the snow was gently falling. "How about there? Real Northmen fight in the cold after all."

"Aye. I'll see you there, arselick." And with that, Anthor and his buddies stalked to the area. Clark turned and strode to Jon, kneeling before the boy.

"Could you do me a favor, Jon?" he said, holding out the wooden practice sword. "Would you hold this for me?"

Jon blinked and closed his mouth, before taking the sword. Clark walked over to the group, Gord joining him on the way.

"You're a damn fool, friend," he said as evenly as he could for being drunk. "Why…why'd you say those things?"

"I want a spar."

They reached the area and Anthor was removing his jacket and rolling his sleeves. He was a beefy man. If the cold was affecting him, he didn't show it. Clark pulled his own shirt off, giving it to Gord to hold. He didn't want to ruin it.

He walked forward, breathing normally as he and Anthor took positions.

"You're no Northman," said Anthor, raising his clenched fists. "Not too cold for you, now?"

Clark deigned not to answer, bending his knees slightly and turning to the side. He raised his hands to his navel, leaving them unclenched.

"Don't worry, I'll warm you up nice."

Clark smiled. "I'm sure. First on his back?"

Anthor smiled back. "Fine."

He heard a few wagers being finalized. The men were muttering, but he could hear them clearly. All were against him. The only speculation was how long he'd last.

All mutterings disappeared as Anthor pulled back for the first punch. Clark saw his fist coming and dodged easily, stepping to the side. Anthor's grin widened as he gave another jab and strike, and disappeared as Clark evaded both of those as well.

Was that impulse mine? Or whatever's been with me for months?

Anthor was clearly not expecting Clark to be as quick as he was. He gave several more punches, which Clark avoided. Both circled the other, each adhering to good sportsmanship or some bullshit like that.

Okay, this isn't real fighting experience. But it is the next level up from sparring with a little boy.

Heaving from the punches, each more unsteady the previous one, and beginning to shiver from the cold, Anthor did not look amused anymore. He was beginning to glare at him.

"You won't win by dancing around, cocksucker," he said, his eyes glinting. "Got to land some hits of your own."

Clark lowered his arms. "Funny. I was going to say the same thing to you."

That did it. Pulling back further than necessary, Anthor threw a wild punch at Clark, who stepped aside, allowing Anthor to fly past him, exposing his back.

There it is.

Clark gave his first real punch of the night, aiming approximately for Anthor's kidney. He connected well and the man went to his knees, clutching his side. Breathing heavily, he knelt there and Clark went behind him.

"Do you yield?" he asked.

Anthor stumbled to his feet and steadied, hissing as he breathed. He turned around.

"No…no, I don't fucking yield," he snarled.

Clark nodded. "All right then. I'm still having fun."

That did nothing to cool Anthor's temper. The beefy soldier from House Glover turned a deeper shade of red and raised his fists. Clark raised his fists too, as well as planting his left foot.

With a yell of frustration, Anthor rushed forward, stretching his fist back. Clark threw his arms down and raised his right leg quickly, meeting Anthor's face with a front kick.

Anthor fell to the ground immediately. His friends came and knelt over him, checking him and shaking him awake. Clark walked to back to Gord for his shirt. Gord handed it over absentmindedly, staring at Anthor lying in the show.

Clark brushed the snow from his bare shoulders and pulled his shirt back on.

"Was that a lowly move, Gord? Not keeping it to the fists?" he asked.

Gord looked at him, as if for the first time. He recovered though and shrugged.

"It was a spar, so maybe. But he was already fighting someone half his weight. Fair game in my view."

"You had lasting me all of four hits?"

Gord nodded and handed him a flask. "I did. Apologies, mate."

"That's all right." Clark took a swig of the liquor, something barely resembling whiskey. He struggled not to cough. "Sorry I couldn't make you rich tonight."

"Forget it. None of us made any coin in this fight."

Clark handed the flask back. Anthor was already coming to, blinking and being helped to his feet. Clark walked over to him. It took a few seconds for Anthor to see him and he stilled.

Nobody said anything for a few seconds before Clark stuck out his hand.

"Good fight," he said. "Next time, if you're willing, we'll use the weapon of your choice."

The glint did not lessen in Anthor's eyes, but he did grasp Clark's hand. They shook, with Clark doing his best to ignore that Anthor was gripping his hand far too tightly to be friendly. However he did let go and after some encouragement from the lads and a flowering plan to visit the Wintertown brothel, he turned to walked away.

"Anthor," called Clark.

The big man turned back slowly. Clark could see his face beginning to bruise already.

"The young boy, the bastard, his name is Jon Snow."

He said it simply, at least he hoped. Not angry, not petulant, just a simple correction.

Anthor's eyes wandered over to the corner where Jon stood. Looking back to Clark, he gave a lazy spat of blood and walked off.

Clark felt Gord come up behind him.

"You were mad 'cause he called Jon a bastard?" Gord said bewildered. "Mate, he is a bastard."

He shrugged. "Just the way he said it. I knew Jon could tell."

"Is that the only reason you kicked his face in?"

Clark shook his head. "No, but it helped." He patted the big man's shoulder. "Have a good night, Gord. Thanks for holding my shirt."

He walked over to where he had started the night. Jon was still there, holding the wooden sword, next to a brazier. Clark walked up and reached for the sword. Jon handed it to him.

"Thank you," he said.

Jon looked at him suspiciously, like he'd never properly seen him before. Clark sighed, looking to the fire.

"What is it, Jon?"

"Are you really a librarian?" he asked.

"I am now. Your father hired me to help expand the Winterfell library. You know that. What else do you think I do all day in there?"

"How did you beat that soldier?"

"He was drunk and slow, so I kicked him in the face."

Jon didn't look amused. "You said you didn't know how to fight."

"I didn't know how to use a sword. That's what I meant."

Jon walked to the rack of practice swords and placed his wooden one back. Seeing that the night was over, Clark followed and did the same. He walked back to the fire, waiting for Jon to speak.

"You're a good swordsman," Jon said a little sullenly, appearing by his side, his hands to the fire. "I think so anyway."

Clark smiled appreciatively. "You've been a great help, but I'm still not that good. I started too late and that will always be against me. Why do you think I suggested hand to hand?"

Jon glanced at him furtively before refocusing on the fire.

"You could dodge him with a sword too," said Jon. "You move quicker than anyone in the yard."

"Really?"

Jon nodded, to which Clark shrugged.

"Well, it's easier to dodge a punch than a blade. Least in my experience. I can dodge but that won't last forever and when I'm caught, I'd better know how to deflect and counter with an actual weapon."

"Do you still want to spar with me then?"

Clark looked down to see Jon's worry in his eyes. That his new friend would find sparring with a child boring after beating up a meathead. He knelt down to meet his eyes.

"I would love to keep sparring with you, Jon," he said. "It would be a pleasure. Although, we should wait until all the soldiers go home. So the training yard will be ours again."

Jon nodded eagerly and Clark stood.

"Now, if you'd excuse me, Jon Snow, I'm tired. I want to bathe and go to sleep. Good night."

"Good night," Jon muttered before scurrying off.

Later that evening, Clark laid awake, examining his right hand by the candlelight. It was fine. Everything went fine. Almost too fine. That fight was much easier than he expected. Was the man that drunk or slow? Did he really hit that hard?

He blew out the candle and closed his eyes, still thinking. He needed a real way to test whatever was happening with him. He wanted to set his boundaries. Find his limits. Before everything went to shit.

But as he was drifting off to sleep, he realized he probably wouldn't find his limit until he was well past it. The Stark children in the story found their strength when they lost everything and were placed in horrific scenarios. They all suffered. Some grew past it. Others didn't.

He supposed he could only hope to be part of the former group and not die before he served his purpose. Whatever it was.