Chapter 13

Despite hardly sleeping at all, Clark felt oddly energetic the following morning. He and Renei folded the blankets and rolled up the pad, before going into the house for breakfast. Anna and Marya were already awake and taking fresh hot bread out of the oven to cool.

"Good morning, Clare," said Marya, a smile spreading across her face. "And you, Garrel. Did you sleep well?"

"Aye, mum, we did," said Renei, walking over to them and making to help, before Marya waved her away.

"Sit, sit. Breakfast will be ready soon."

So Renei sat with Clark at the table, just when Lucas came down the stairs. He greeted them all and came over to Renei.

"I'm sorry, Clare, but I can't spend all day here. I have to go into town and pick up some supplies."

Renei gripped her brother's hand. "Don't worry, Lucas. We'll still be here when you get back."

Lucas smiled sadly. "I know. I just wish to be with you as much as possible before you leave." He perked up. "Do you all want to come with me? See Gulltown proper?"

Clark kept his face straight as much as he could, but thankfully Renei responded quickly.

"Thank you, Lucas, but I missed this place when I was gone, not Gulltown. Besides Garrel and I are both exhausted from the journey here and we wish to stay in one spot for a day before we depart tomorrow."

Lucas nodded. "Course. I'm sorry. I didn't think."

Anna brought bread and butter to the table. "Don't feel so sad for him. He'll brighten up once he sees Olive in town."

With a teasing grin, Renei gave no quarter. "Really? Is Olive the baker girl? The one you pine for, Lucas?"

Fighting a blush, Lucas tore off some bread. "She pines for me too," he muttered.

"Well, that's very nice. Is she pretty?"

"Yes."

"How so?"

He chewed the bread, talking with a full mouth. "Light brown hair. Pretty face. Not too short." The blush was getting deeper. "I don't know…nose?"

"What color are her eyes, Lucas?" asked Anna, barely covering her laughter. "Or do you look elsewhere when you talk to her?"

"Girls, that's enough," said Marya, though she was fighting a smile herself. "Leave Lucas be. The sooner he goes to Gulltown and does his errands, not dallying about with Olive," her eyes pointing at Lucas as she said it, "the sooner he'll be back here. Are you leaving soon, Lucas?"

Lucas stood up, taking one last piece of bread with him. "Right now, Mum." He donned his coat and hat at the door, turning back as he exited.

"She has green eyes," he called, walking toward the road.

The rest of the morning was spent doing chores. Marya tried to stop Clark and Renei from helping, but to no avail. For about an hour, he hunched over a laundry basket with Anna and scrubbed. He struggled not to invite comparisons to Lady Macbeth, cleaning the imaginary blood from her hands.

It was good to have something physical to do. He was feeling increasingly stir crazy from being constantly silent…and the murder.

He rinsed a shirt of Lucas and wrung it, trying to process the fact that he was now a murderer. There was nothing that he could do about it. He couldn't take it back. He didn't want to. But he did in some way. He hung the shirt and reached for another article of clothing. All the while, just continuing to breathe…

After the laundry was hung, he joined Renei and her mother at the mill, where they were grinding the grain, sifting it and filling the sacks with flour. Anna went to prepare lunch.

A couple of people came to the mill before midday to pick up their flour. Clark lifted the sacks into carts and shook hands, trying not to give strangers too much time to learn his face. It was all very cordial.

Lunch was a subdued affair, with dried meat and more buttered bread. The family either felt comfortable in their silence or rude speaking in the presence of a mute. Either way, it was an enjoyable meal with only the sounds of the mill wheel creaking, the river flowing and the light wind rustling the trees. They ate outside on the grass. Renei leaned up against him.

As they finished their meal, Lucas came up back the road, carrying up several items. They went to relieve him. He handed his mother a fat gutted salmon, hanging from a rope.

"I figured that we deserved a delicious fish for their final night home." He smiled. "I bought some wine as well."

Marya actually clapped her hands for that, giving Lucas a hug and kiss before carrying the salmon indoors. Clark grabbed the wine and another package. They all went inside, Anna taking his coat and hat. As Lucas sat down, a plate of dried meat and bread was put before him.

"How was green-eyed Olive today?" said Anna.

"Green-eyed Olive was well and very pretty today," he said, chewing his beef. Clark sat across him. He could smell a faint hint of cinnamon and cloves on the teenager.

"And the rest of Gulltown?" asked Marya as she washed her hands.

Lucas' smile dropped and he waited until he swallowed to answer.

"A little tense truthfully. There was a murder last night. Lord Baelish is dead."

Clark felt his chest constrict again. He stilled along with everyone else in the house.

"Our head customs officer," explained Marya to Renei and Clark before going back to Lucas. "When? How?"

Lucas reached for the bread. "People said it was sometime last night. Stabbed in his bed." He broke off a piece. "Some whore did it."

Anna sat down. "Who?"

"Don't know. Just some whore." He shrugged. "Lord Baelish was a miser. Probably didn't pay her enough and she killed him."

Clark turned to see Renei's eyes on him. He couldn't read her expression.

"What's going to happen?" asked Anna.

"She hangs today."

"Today?"

Lucas nodded. "It's what Olive said anyway. They were just about to bring her out when I left…"

"All right, that's enough," said Marya briskly. "It's our last day with Clare and Garrel. Let's not spoil it with any more talk of lowlifes and lowly deeds. Anna, go sweep the mill while it's still light."

As Anna strolled past and out the door, Clark accepted the task of peeling the potatoes. He did so numbly, sitting at the table next to an untroubled Lucas. Time seemed to slow and quicken simultaneously. He blinked to find himself at dinner, still sitting in the same spot. He swore he had just been peeling potatoes…

Now he was eating them, bringing them absentmindedly to his mouth and swallowing. His wine was barely drunk. A fish skin and bones were the only remaining parts of his salmon.

Renei's hand appeared on his shoulder. He turned to see Marya, looking at him expectantly. He had missed a question.

"Could you repeat that, Mum, please? His mind was elsewhere," said Renei lightly.

"I said, is there any chance that you two would consider moving here? A man of letters can always find use in Gulltown. As for Clare, with Lady Stark as a reference, I'm sure she could find work quite easily as well."

Clark took a second before shaking his head gently. Renei took his hand.

"I told you, Mum. I like the North. Garrel's from there and besides a lady's maid is not just something you walk away from. Lady Stark put time into me. She trusts me. That's not something they can replace so easily."

"That's horseshit," said Anna, from the corner.

"Anna…"

"I'm sorry, Mum, but it is. The highborn care far less for you than you think. Like they couldn't replace you if they grew tired of you..."

"Anna, enough." said Lucas, his eyes on his plate.

"It's true though…"

"I said enough," said Lucas, his voice taking on an authority that Clark hadn't heard before. It was quiet though. "Clare's here now. Maybe she'll visit again one day. But she has to leave in the morn. So, let's just enjoy this evening and not…"

He trailed off and went back to his plate. Anna swallowed and did not raise the question again. Marya, after a few seconds of silence, changed the subject to a more cheerful one and Clark retreated back into his headspace.

They exchanged their farewells that evening before bed. After a thorough handshake from Lucas, Anna and Marya surprised him with long, big hugs. He tried not to feel worse that he brought their Clare home only to take her away again so soon.

The mill was not conductive to a good rest. Renei managed to fall asleep, but Clark remained sitting, staring into darkness. It wasn't all due to Petyr's death. He was paranoid about sleeping in and missing the boat. He also kept thinking back to the young woman who now hung in Gulltown, whom he only knew by voice.

How much did Petyr's death cost? One hundred gold dragons, travel expenses, a horrible lie to one family, one nameless whore…

He knew cruelly that it was worth it. Petyr was not there to enable Robert and to manipulate the kingdoms into war. But war could still happen. Was there anything that could stop Jon Arryn and Stannis when they discover the bastardry of Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen? Would they confront Cersei? How would Robert react? How would Tywin respond…?

The night passed with these thoughts plaguing Clark. He had the same feeling he had when he first arrived in Westeros. Just an overwhelming weight that sunk deeper and deeper. Now it was aided by the fact that he had killed someone.

The breathing exercises took longer than he expected to work and he didn't lie down. He simply felt numb, with only one desire left: he needed to leave Gulltown and return to Winterfell as soon as possible.

When the darkness lessened and Clark could begin to see gray light seep into the mill, he woke Renei. She didn't say a word to him before she went to bed and this morning was no different. Silently she dressed, as he put away their bedding. After the mill was respectfully taken care of, they crept out and started south on the main road.

As opposed to the previous night, there was little cloud cover. The stars were quickly disappearing as they walked down the path. This hike seemed to take longer than usual and he watched the eastern sky with some apprehension. Nevertheless, within an hour, they arrived at the Northern Gate.

As they approached, he felt Renei's eyes fall on him. He turned and gave her a reassuring nod.

"Come on now," she muttered. "No need for that horseshit."

A genuine chuckle fell out of him. He didn't know why. Didn't have time to think about it. The guards outside the gate noticed their approach.

"Halt!" one said. "What's your business?"

"My husband and I are to board a ship within the hour," said Renei, her voice lightly honeyed.

The other guard stepped forward.

"Is this the one that Ben was preening about?"

The first guard rolled his eyes. "I suppose." He stood aside and waved them through. "All right, go ahead."

"Thank you," said Renei as Clark nodded to them both. They passed through the opened gate and left the two guards to the rest of their morning.

Their journey through the town was quick, despite more activity in the streets than Clark had expected in the predawn. Bakers and smiths were managing their fires. Fishermen were walking down to the docks for the morning catch. Even the taverns were finishing with their close.

The chilly morning sea breeze hit them as soon as they came into the harbor. Or at least it seemed so. Clark saw Renei trembling. He took out his navy cloak and wrapped it around her. She didn't protest and they made their way to the custom house, until Clark saw something that made his heart stop...

Jesus Christ…

There was a gallows structure on the stonewalk. It must have been put up yesterday. A figure hung from the crossbeam, turning slightly with the breeze, her corpse pale as chalk, her blue dress stained with excrement.

A sign was around her neck. Clark slowed to read it. Murdering Whore it stated. His eyes followed the sign up to her face, framed by dark red hair…red hair…

He felt a tug by his elbow.

"Don't stare, damn you," hissed Renei, her eyes forward. "Keep moving."

Picking up the pace, they entered the customs house. The officer barely looked at their belongings before waving them through. The docks were coming to life and ships were leaving the harbor. They descended down onto the dock, traversing their way through merchants and sailors to The Bottom Eel.

The captain saw them coming and waved them aboard.

"Good morning onto thee, Batlers!" he called as they walked up the plank. He nodded to Renei, while he shook Clark's hand. "Did you have a good stay in Gulltown?"

"We did," said Renei, not able to suppress a yawn. "Excuse me. When will we be getting on our way, Captain?"

"No more than an hour, ma'am," the captain said. "Boys still loading the merchandise and all."

Clark didn't hear the rest of the captain's words. He went to the rails, leaning toward the town. He knew he shouldn't look, but he couldn't help it. His eyes were drawn to the hanging dead woman in the harbor. With the red hair.

That and combined with Petyr's moans of his boyhood obsession, he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. Under the soft glow of candlelight and facing away from him, this woman was not the worst substitute for Catelyn Stark that Petyr could find.

He felt a strain in his hands. Looking down, he saw that they were tightly clenched. He breathed in, straightening them out. His breathing made him more tired than relaxed, the lack of sleep for the past two nights beginning to make itself known.

Renei came to his side. "It's rude to leave your wife alone with unruly sailors."

The tone was sardonic and he tried to respond in kind, but no sound came out. He had no energy for verbal play. So he just settled for a tiring sigh.

He felt her gaze follow his. They both regarded the hanging woman in the distance. He didn't know how long they stared before the sailors began to cast off ropes and steer the ship out of the harbor. The hanging woman began to recede into the distance.

Clark turned to see Renei's face downcast toward the water. Her gaze was still hard though. He checked his surroundings before muttering.

"What?"

She breathed through her nose. "Wasn't what I wanted to see when I left my home again. The big port. Her hanging in front."

The sea breeze began to pick up. Renei's raven hair fought against the scarf she wrapped around it and she shivered, despite Clark's navy cloak.

"I'm sorry you saw that," Clark said in a low voice.

Renei shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Lowlife. Lowly deeds. All she is, right? Just some whore."

Her voice quieted as she spoke. Clark leaned in to match her tone.

"Your family loves you. They just…they just don't…"

"I don't want to hear you talk about them," Renei stated softly. She was clear and firm. "Not here or now or ever in the future. Do you understand?"

"I do," he said immediately, not wanting to argue. They didn't say another word until The Bottom Eel had cleared the harbor. The captain yelled for the sails to be unfurled. The speed picked up. Soon they would be sailing on the Narrow Sea, headed north for White Harbor.

However, even the heavy wind wasn't doing enough to keep Clark awake. He was nodding off at the rails. Renei tapped her fingers impatiently.

"Oh seven hells," she exclaimed, as Clark nodded onto the rails for a fourth time. "Go down below and sleep, will you? Before you topple off. I don't need you drowning before I get the other half."

Conceding that much, Clark picked himself off the rails. Before he left for the cabin below, he leaned to Renei.

"You're not a lowlife," he said softly, just under the crash of the water.

She met his eyes but he didn't back down. They stared coolly at each other, before she broke the silence.

"You look awful," she said, before turning back to the sea.

He knew that was the best he was going to get. Trying to recall his sea legs, he stumbled to the cabin, yawning vigorously all the while.

The voyage back to White Harbor was just as quiet as the voyage from. He managed to catch up on sleep. The weather was fair, for the end of a slight winter. He did get sick one day though.

Renei spoke just as much as him. She shared the bed for warmth and nothing else. She ate and stood with him, for they were still husband and wife to this crew. A silent couple sailing back North.

Only in solitary moments did Clark see a shadow in Renei's eyes. If it was all from the dead woman in Gulltown, he understood somewhat. The memory of the corpse turning gently from the rope haunted him. Not to hysteria, mind, but still. He found himself breathing quickly on the ship for no good reason. Maybe Renei was smart for putting her head down, not gazing at the unfortunate woman.

In some sense, he was glad that Renei put an embargo on discussing what had happened in Gulltown. He wanted to offer comforting words, but he also had no idea what to say. He wished he knew the hung woman's name. Would she just remain a nameless ghost for him?

She was worth it, Clark. Petyr's dead. You're still here to save more. It's horrible but it IS worth it.

…

Was she though?

Those were the two thoughts that entered his mind several times a day. Being a passenger on a boat without working didn't help. Neither was the silence. He longed to scream sometimes, but he'd have to wait until they landed.

Clark and Renei arrived in White Harbor after six nights on the Narrow Sea. It was just before midday when they disembarked. They decided together that they would rather get back to Winterfell as soon as possible, electing not to stay the night. It took another hour, but they soon retrieved their old cart and horse from the port stables.

They rode out of White Harbor, knowing that they would have to camp that night. Renei never complained about sleeping outside, but she did stay close to the fire after their light dinner. Once Clark tended to the horse, he joined her by the flames. They sat in silence for a while, alone by the river, the White Knife, according to the map.

Even before Gulltown and before that when they arrived in White Harbor from Winterfell, they didn't converse much. Renei seemed disinterested and Clark didn't want to push her. So far, this night was proving to be no different. Renei sat, wrapped in a blanket, staring into the flames for a long time. Clark extracted his shaving kit from his rucksack.

He wetted the soap and was rubbing it onto his face when Renei broke the silence.

"The man who was killed by that whore," she murmured, her voice barely rising above the flames. "What was he to you?"

Clark wiped his hands clean. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I ask," she said, her eyes still to the fire. "What did Lord Baelish do to you?"

The river carried the silence for him. He knew he should answer and quickly too, lest he look too guilty. But he couldn't help it. His mouth refused to open. The lie he wanted to tell was stuck inside.

Renei turned her eyes to him, waiting. "Well?"

He was a scheming, greedy man who cared nothing for the lives he ruined as long as it brought him what he wanted. I killed him before he could destroy any more lives.

Clark picked up the razor, opening it. "Nothing. Just the man who had bought my mother's stolen good."

"Did you kill him?" She seemed quite calm asking that question.

Clark willed his heart to slow. "He was already dead when I snuck inside. No candles lit. I heard no one breathing. I thought there was no one there. I struck a match."

He brought the razor slowly down his cheek. He wetted the blade and raised it again…before letting his hand fall to his lap.

"Never seen someone murdered like that before. I stood shocked for a few minutes, couldn't move...I tried to search his office, but…I couldn't. I just…I left soon after. Threw my knife in the harbor from the window. Didn't want to be caught leaving that place with a possible murder weapon."

The fire seemed to grow brighter. Clark turned to Renei. Her expression didn't look suspicious, but it didn't seem believing either. However, when she silently sighed and looked to the fire again, somehow he knew that she accepted his story.

He brought the razor back up and continued to shave.

"You should keep the beard one day," she said, as he finished, scraping the last remnants of his moustache.

"Everyone here has beards."

He soaked a cloth and wiped his face clean. He also cleaned the razor before putting the kit away.

"Do you know any songs?" asked Renei. "Something from your home?"

Clark glanced at her and she answered with a shrug. "You saw my home. Might as well give a glimpse of yours."

Clark considered it. "A few. What'd do you want to hear?"

"Something light. Something sad." She laid down on her pad, pulling her blankets over her.

He crossed his legs, lazily poking at the fire. "There's one called The Unfortunate Lad. It's about a young man who dies from syphilis."

"What's that?"

"Disease from my homeland. Spread through fucking." He caught her eyebrows raising up. "Don't worry, I don't have it."

"I'm sure that's what a man would say if he did."

"Well, I don't."

She returned his stare for a few seconds before returning to the fire. She snuggled in his cloak, which she was using as a pillow.

"Sing it then," she murmured, her eyes reflecting the flames.

What little wind there was seemed to have died the moment before. The forest was quiet with no insects to give their chorus, still too cold from the end of winter. The running of the White Knife and the crackle of the campfire were the only accompaniment Clark would have.

He swallowed some spit and he began, gentle and low.

"As I was a walking

Down by the loch

As I was a walking one morning of late

Who should I spy

But my own dear comrade?

Wrapped up in flannel

So hard is his fate

I boldly stepped up to

And kindly did ask him

Why are you wrapped up in flannel so white?

My body is injured

And sadly disordered

All by a young woman

My own heart's delight

Oh had she but told me

When she disordered me

Had she but told me of it at the time

I might have got salts

Or pills of white mercury

But now I'm cut down

In the height of my prime

Get six pretty maidens

To carry my coffin

And six pretty maidens

To bear up my pall

And give to each of them

Bunches of roses

That they may not smell me

As they go along."

Clark let the last note fade away. A moment passed before he looked to Renei.

"You've a nice voice," she said, halfway to sleep. She didn't wait for him to respond before rolling over.

Clark kept his eye on her for a while before returning to the fire. He opened his waterskin and raised it to the flames.

To you, Petyr. You were good television.

He drank the water, wishing it were whiskey.

A short time later, he humored the idea of sleeping himself. However, the idea seemed a little dangerous to Clark. He hated the exposure and he didn't like leaving a fire unattended. He sat and waited for the flames to run their course.

The shaving kit was put away but the razor stayed out. Not that he would be able to do anything with it, but it was something at least. As his hand gripped the razor, he couldn't help but flash back to how his original knife felt.

Sighing, he realized that he could have and should have just bought another knife in White Harbor.

He cursed himself but saw a new advantage immediately. The absence of a blade would give him a good excuse to go see Mikken at Winterfell and select a knife of Northern steel. Nothing too extravagant. He had to maintain some appearances. A librarian walking around with a long blade at the hip was sure to raise some eyebrows.

When the fire was out, he lied down and shuddered as he closed his eyes. He couldn't help but replay the scene in the customs house. His knife in Petyr's throat. Desperate to get some sleep, he concentrated on the original death of Littlefinger: the ambush trial, Bran's testimony, the pleading, Sansa's decision, Arya's execution…

He laughed lightly without finding anything humorous about it. He supposed Littlefinger died the same way both times; with his throat slit. Tiresias, with the rinky-dink knife and Arya with the Valyrian steel dagger…

Clark felt his breath stop.

Oh shit.

He opened his eyes and sat up quickly.

"Shit," he hissed. Turning to Renei, he saw that she was still asleep. He got up as quickly and quietly as possible, walking, but mostly stumbling down to the White Knife.

"You fucking moron, Clark. You fucking, stupid, fucking goddamn moron…"

It was a struggle to keep his voice down and he never wished more that he could just scream. He reached the White Knife, the moon reflected in the running river. He paced along the edge, before crouching down and splashing his face with water.

He remained crouched, trying desperately to reign in his panic.

Okay, Clark. Clark, just breathe. Breathe and think. Where did that knife come? The Valyrian steel dagger. Where did it come from? Think. Just think…

He sat down on the riverbank and closed his eyes, thinking over the show.

Just go backward…okay, okay…Arya had the dagger last. She got it from Bran, who got it from Littlefinger…where did he get it? Did…The assassin had it, so where did Petyr get it?

He lowered his face and rubbed his temples.

First season, first season….after the assassination attempt, Cat went to King's Landing. She and Ned asked Littlefinger about it…He mentioned Tyrion Lannister, said he lost the dagger…was that a lie? Did Tyrion say it was a lie? Jesus Christ…

Clark racked his brains, trying to recall every last detail he could. Trying desperately to recall the true origin of the Valyrian steel dagger. Did Petyr have it already? Was it locked away in Gulltown? Or did he only acquire it when he became more powerful and wealthy as Master of Coin? Wasn't Joffrey the one to order Bran's assassination and if so, when did he get it? Was it even his?

He felt tears come to his eyes, out of exhaustion, out of killing Petyr, out of overlooking the dagger, out of his faulty memory...he just couldn't stop it. He sobbed silently and when the tears were done, he just sat quietly. With his mind dazed, he removed his boots and placed his feet in the running water.

Though his feet would not feel the full chill, he slowly came back to himself. He stood and walked back to the campfire. Renei was still asleep, snoring lightly. He sat down on his pad. It would probably be another restless night for him. However he eventually stretched out, in the vain hope that he could delude himself in sleeping.

He could feel it working. Wiping his eyes for a final time that evening, he couldn't help but curse himself one last time before losing consciousness.

Fuck you, Clark. And fuck you too, Tiresias.

However, in the following days, Clark felt the anger of overlooking the dagger mostly dissipate. It's hard to sustain anger, even toward oneself and Clark's rage slowly mellowed into a cold determination. There were other Valyrian steel weapons in the world. The dagger was not their only option, though he would keep an ear out for it. Years were ahead of them. And they could prepare in other ways as well.

That said, his mood was still pretty downtrodden the first few days of the journey. Renei definitely noticed, but said nothing. However, as they ventured closer and closer to Winterfell, he breathed easier, feeling the horror of killing Petyr lessen the farther away they traveled.

Overall, the return trip proved to be a shorter affair. Within twelve days, they pulled up to the brothel in Wintertown around midday. Renei grabbed her bag and jumped down, without waiting for a hand. She did wait until he came around to meet her.

"I'll deliver the other half tonight," he said, after checking to make sure they were alone.

She nodded and reached into her bag, handing over two handkerchiefs.

"Pretend I forgot these and you're delivering them back to me," she said. Without another word, she strode to the brothel and entered.

Clark stood there for a long minute, before climbing aboard the cart and continuing toward the castle. Wintertown was bustling with activity. He glimpsed familiar faces in the town as they went about their business. He even received nods from the candlemaker and a pig farmer, both of whom he was acquainted with.

He felt a little ridiculous riding high above the populace on his cart, but he was tired and he decided to let the horse take the final steps of the journey.

Approaching the gate, he saw some familiar faces amongst the guard, who motioned for him to stop. He pulled the reins gently and halted before the entrance.

"Hello Halford," he said, lowering his hood. "Vics, how are you?"

"Tiresias?," said Vics, stepping forward. "You back already?"

"Evidently," Clark remarked, "Anything exciting happened while I was away?"

The young guard shrugged. "Not that I can see."

"Well, that's not bad news." He turned to Halford, who remained silent. "May I pass?"

Halford stepped back and waved him forward. The courtyard was busy and ringing with anvil hits, animal noises and carpentry. At first no one even noticed him entering the courtyard. He brought the cart to the stables, where a stableboy came out to greet him.

"Hello Rod," he called as he jumped down. "Where's Hullen?"

Rod took the reins in one hand and began unhitch the horse from the cart. "Out in the fields with Lord Stark, Lord Robb and Jon Snow. Riding lesson."

Clark helped unhitched the other side and waited until Rod stabled the tired animal. After they pushed the cart into storage and sorted the borrowed blankets and supplies, Clark trudged back to his room. He greeted a few he knew; Mal, Gord, he even ran into Maester Luwin on his way. As genuinely happy he was to see them, he quickly excused himself from each run-in, eager for his refuge.

A sliver thin layer of dust coated his room, but not as much as he expected. Someone had cleaned the place at least once in his absence. He dropped his bag and plopped down on the bed. Sleep came to the edge of his consciousness and he was tempted to shut his eyes and welcome it.

Summoning his willpower though, he got up. He went to the chest in the corner, for which only he had the key for. Upon opening it, he took out the coin purse in the corner. It still felt quite full. Nevertheless, he counted out the fifty remaining dragons that would go to Renei tonight.

Satisfied with the count, he locked the purse away again. He then went to the springs with a change of clothes and bathed. He wasn't quite as grimy as when he first arrived at Winterfell, but he still needed a scrub.

After a quick shave, Clark went up to the library. He didn't want to search all over the castle for Lord Stark and so decided to kill time before dinner. Although in the middle of reading Karstark history, he did remember something else. He put away the tome and went back to the yard, heading for the blacksmith.

The rush of heat swept over him and he resisted the urge to remove his furs. Mikken stood in the back, correcting the technique of a young apprentice. Clark waited politely as Mikken finished and came to the front.

"Hello Mikken," greeted Clark, extending his hand to shake. Mikken took a look at his hand and raised his own, showing the soot.

"I don't mind soot, Mikken."

"Aye, I'm sure you don't. But the pages in your library do." He took a cloth and wiped his hands. "How can I help ye, Tiresias?"

Clark lowered his hand. "I need a dagger."

"What happened to your old one?"

Killed a man. Currently at the bottom of the Gulltown harbor.

"Broke. On the way back to Winterfell."

Mikken picked up a mold and set it down on the table, locking it into place before picking up a chisel. Clark stayed a safe distance.

"No surprise there," said Mikken, as he began to the shape the mold. "Where'd you purchase that shite knife?"

"Fairmarket."

"That says it. The best steel in the Riverlands can't compete with my forge. And you didn't even get the best."

Clark resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm sure every other smith from every other kingdom in Westeros says the same."

"Aye and they're welcome to test that. Southern steel didn't bring the North to heel."

"No," said Clark. "Only dragons from the east."

Mikken laughed at that, blowing out the remains from the chiseling. Clark gave him a minute before inquiring further.

"And the dagger?"

The smith stood, sighing. "I'm not sure if I can accommodate ye, Tiresias. Lord Stark is commissioning a large amount of ironworks. Construction at the start of spring. The Broken Tower broken further and replaced."

"Not asking for something special from scratch. A good dagger's what I need. I'm no lord. Don't need nothing fancy."

Mikken gave him an odd look. "I don't see why a librarian needs a dagger at all."

Clark met his eyes and didn't back down. The thought of the Valyrian dagger flashed in his mind and he forced it away. Finally the smith sighed.

"Come on." He walked to the back, Clark followed, sidestepping the apprentices as they hammered. "I've a few rough blades I can hone and hilt. Fine with nothing fancy, ye said?"

"If it's sharp, sturdy and won't break on me, it'll work," called Clark over the hammering. Mikken extracted a few short blades from a pile and laid them on a table.

"These will all do," he said, running his fingers over them. "What's your pleasure?"

The shortest two blades seemed about nine inches, while the longest ran up to fourteen. Not wanting to go to the extreme either way, Clark settled for the middle. He pointed to an eleven-inch blade. Mikken picked it up, looking it over.

"I'll need a week to finish this," he said. "That'll include the sheath. The workers need irons quickly."

"I understand," said Clark. "Don't think I'll need a blade that fast. What's your price?"

"Three dragons ought to do it." He caught Clark's widening eye. "Is that too much for a decent blade?"

Clark shook his head and handed over the coin. "For Northern steel? I'll pay up."

Completely forgetting the beginning of the conversation, he shook Mikken's hand and sealed the deal. Mikken's eyes with filled with laughter as Clark felt the soot from the blacksmith. With that, Clark left the forge and washed his hands by the kitchen.

It was now time for dinner and Clark entered the Great Hall. Lord and Lady Stark were sitting with the children. He softened his step and approached as a good subject would. He reached the table and stood silently, waiting to be noticed.

Lord Stark was conversing with Ser Rodrik Cassel and it was the knight who saw Clark, waiting at the front of the table. He muttered to Ned, who turned to Clark.

"Good evening, Lord Stark," Clark said, giving a short bow.

Ned stood and came around. He shook Clark's hand.

"Tiresias, welcome back," he greeted as warmly as a taciturn man could. "I'd heard you arrived. Was the journey kind to you?"

"It was, my Lord."

Ned clapped his shoulder. "Well, you'll have to tell me more tomorrow." His tone was light but his eyes were quite serious.

Clark nodded. "Of course." He turned to Catelyn and nodded. "Lady Stark, good evening."

Catelyn Stark looked at him. She seemed composed but her eyes were a little strained. She looked like she had cried that day.

Clark had a good idea what caused it…

Nevertheless she smiled. "Good evening, Tiresias. I'm glad to see you've arrived safe."

"Thank you, my lady."

Catelyn's greeting caused the children to notice him.

"Tiresias!" called Robb from his seat. Jon turned to see him. He greeted all of them succinctly, before dismissing himself and sitting down at the other end of the hall, his whole body feeling like it wanted to sink into the floor.

Mal came to him with a mug of ale. Thanking her, he lifted it and drank nearly the whole thing without thinking. He set it down to see her barely holding in a laugh.

He shrugged. "I'm really thirsty."

"So I gathered," she said blithely. "Do you want something to eat as well?"

She ended up bringing up him a bowl of cawl. After two helpings and another round of ale, Clark felt stupidly content. He wanted to go to bed right away and hide from the world.

However he still had one more errand for the night.

In his room, he positioned the dragons in his rucksack as to not made too much noise. He also covered the rucksack by wearing the cloak. Being tipsy didn't help him, but it did make it fun. Finally he got it right and after grabbing the handkerchiefs, he wandered out of his room.

The warmer (comparatively) night air meant that the silent, solitary, snow-laden walks to the brothel were gone for the next several years. Wintertown was no Gulltown, but a few people were out enjoying the evening. Clark didn't bother to greet them. They all ignored him as well.

The noise of the brothel swept over him. Ambre saw him and rushed over.

"Tiresias!" she said, shaking his hand. "Welcome back, welcome back. Didn't expect you here tonight. You had Renei all to yourself, after all."

Clark smiled, he hoped in a friendly way. "She forgot some handkerchiefs. I'm just here to return them." He held them up. "Can I go back there?"

Ambre shrugged. "Sure, why not? Treat my place as your own, why don't you?"

He patted her shoulder. "Ambre, you're a peach."

She whacked his hand away, laughing. "Fuck off."

Unable to suppress a grin, he exited into the hallway, hearing Ambre yell after him, "Make sure you're out of there quick. You didn't pay for tonight."

He came to her door and knocked. After a minute, Renei opened the door and stood aside, shutting it after he entered.

Clark tossed the handkerchiefs down on the bed. He swung the rucksack around, extracting the purse and placing it on the bed as well. He opened it and stood aside.

Renei stepped forward, staring at the purse. She placed her hand inside, running her fingers gently through the coins.

"Do you want to count it?" asked Clark.

"I'll do it later, but this looks about the same."

A silence fell on them. Renei tied the purse shut and placed it into that small chest that wasn't usually there. Hitching his rucksack back onto his shoulders, Clark adjusted his cloak and went to the door.

"I should go now," he said. "See you."

"Tiresias," Renei turned back to him. "I don't want you to come back. Not to me. You can come here and be with any other girl. But not with me."

Clark stood dumb by the door. A part of him wanted to argue, ask why…but another part just knew and understood. It stung, but…well, there really were no buts.

"I understand," he heard himself say. "If I come, I won't ask for you."

The fire crackled. He hung his head trying to think what he wanted to say. He lifted his gaze to see Renei staring steadily at him.

"Thank you for coming with me," he said, before opening the door. A young girl was carrying a guard to her room, her excited laughter filling the silence before she disappeared.

"Goodbye, Renei." He shut the door and walked away.

Trudging back to the castle, he removed his cloak as usual, feeling the cool air. A strange feeling was going through his chest. It wasn't heartbreak. But it wasn't far off.

A tavern came up on his left and it was very tempting to go in…

He sighed and walked past. It wouldn't do for the future of Westeros if he drowned himself in drink and emotional ambiguity. Petyr Baelish was dead. He had hurt people for that. He would probably have to hurt a lot more people before this whole thing was over. He would have to accept that. If not, well then…perhaps he was the wrong person to wake up on that hill in the Riverlands.