Chapter 14

Clark stood in Ned's solar, waiting for him to appear. It was early in the afternoon and the midday meal wasn't enough time for his hand to loosen up. He'd spent four straight hours writing to various holds and castles for the library's expansion. The work had piled up in his absence. After not writing for six weeks, the cramp in his hand was not backing down.

He massaged it gently, ignoring the urge to sit.

Footsteps came down the hall. He turned to see Lord Stark opening the door. There were no guards in the hallway, or so he glimpsed before the door was shut.

Clark inclined his head. "You summoned me?"

Ned nodded and went to his desk. He opened a drawer and extracted a letter. Instead of sitting behind the desk however, he came to the fire and took one of the seats there. He gestured to the other, which Clark took for himself.

"Thank you," he said.

Ned nodded, looking at the fire in the hearth before turning to Clark. "Did you succeed in what you set out to do?"

Clark was a little taken back by the opaqueness of the question. After all, they discussed openly killing someone, but he nodded quickly.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I did."

Ned met his eyes for a moment, before handing him the letter from his desk. Clark took it uncertainly.

"I received that from the capital two days ago," stated Ned, his voice low. "From the Hand of the King."

"Jon Arryn?"

Ned nodded, his eyes waiting. Clark unfurled the parchment and read.

Dear Ned, Lord of Winterfell,

Lysa has gifted me with a son, your new nephew, Robin. I thank the Seven that he has survived the birth, avoiding the fate of his stillborn siblings. He is not healthy enough as to completely assuage my fears, but he still breathes.

I ask you, Ned, or more so, your wife if she could send comfort to my wife. It was a difficult labor for her. Not only did the memories of her previous attempts haunt her, but she was overcome with grief before the birth of Robin.

A few days before the birth, we had received word that Lord Petyr Baelish was brutally murdered in Gulltown, where I had appointed him as head customs officer. He had shown great promise. His death is a horrible tragedy, felt deeply by my wife. As you know, Petyr and she and Catelyn were friends from his fostering at Riverrun. It was actually Lysa who had recommended Petyr for the position.

I'm not too proud to deny that my wife was infatuated with Lord Baelish, that he was her true desire. Every noble in the seven kingdoms knows the nature of our marriage. I don't resent her overwhelming grief, but I'm unable to comfort her. The sight of her real husband when she is consumed with the murder of her preferred man is too much for her.

She won't see me and she won't leave little Robin's side. Her ladies-in-waiting cannot comfort her. The boy is everything to her now. I know Catelyn is unable to leave Winterfell with children so young, but if she could send Lysa a condolence as well as keep a regular exchange of ravens, that might cheer her.

Please forgive me an old man's rambling. I give thanks that the winter was short and wish good fortune for you and your family.

With all my affection,

Jon,

Hand of the King

Clark lowered the letter and sank further into the chair. He handed it back to Ned, who took it wordlessly.

"Congratulations on the new nephew."

Ned nodded, though the gesture seemed automatic.

"I had never met Lord Baelish," he said. "But I have heard of him. From Catelyn."

"The duel with Brandon," Clark mused. Ned looked at him sharply, then back to the fire.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you know of that."

Clark shrugged. "He never got over her. Lysa was a cheap substitute when he was bedridden and weak. Truthfully I don't believe she would appreciate a condolence from Lady Catelyn. It'll just be a raw memory for Lady Arryn. A bitter reminder that Petyr loved your wife and not her."

On that, Lord Stark got up and went to his desk. He placed the letter down and bowed his head, his hands pressing against the surface. There was nothing said for a while. Finally, Clark got up and walked to the desk himself. He waited for the Lord of Winterfell to collect his thoughts.

Ned was still staring at the desk when he spoke.

"Was Lord Baelish in your visions? A thorn in our side?"

Clark took a calming breath. "Does it matter now?"

Silence reigned in the solar. When Ned Stark gathered himself, he raised his eyes to meet Clark's.

"I will not ask you what happened during your absence or what you did. But in the future, if you're under my roof and protection, you will disclose your actions and explain their necessity. Is that understood?"

Clark nodded. "I understand." He hoped he wouldn't have to break that promise.

Sinking into the chair, Ned sighed. Clark relaxed himself.

"So," he began. "The Broken Tower?"

Ned nodded. "I inspected the ruins during your absence with Vanyon Poole and the masons. We considered rebuilding from the present state, but that's more trouble than it's worth. So we're going to begin tearing it down the first week of spring. Place a structure for food storage there. A keep without the hot spring waters coursing through them."

"Well, that's a beginning I suppose," said Clark, walking to the window. The Broken Tower stood in the distance. The beginning of Bran's journey. If that was gone, would the Three-Eyed Raven still reach out to Bran through his dreams? Or the Reeds? He turned back to Ned.

"I'll warn this about any food stored here, Lord Stark. When the dead attacked Winterfell, they crumbled quite a bit of it. If you defeat them, but they manage to destroy the food, then the people will starve and die anyway. The food stored should be made to move with evacuees down south, if that step is taken."

"We'll take that into consideration," promised Lord Stark. He stood up and crossed to the map on the North, beckoning Clark to follow him.

"We'll begin negotiations with the Reach to export more dried goods to the North in the coming years. We've always been self-sufficient when it comes to feeding ourselves. Anything we import will be a boon to our stores." Ned gestured to the various lands. "As for the North, the most fertile of our lands are these areas. I've already sent riders to inspect the various farmlands there. Any room for expansion in the fields. Correspond with the respective lords holding them. For any extra hands and funds needed, we'll find a way to supply them."

He glanced at Clark.

"You won't be needing a hundred dragons for each venture, will you?"

Clark shook his head. "I'll try and keep the ventures as inexpensive as possible." His fingers traced the eastern coast, down south until he reached the edge of the map. "What about Dragonstone?"

Ned sighed. "I confess that I have deferred on that task. Keeping the true nature of dragonglass a secret won't be easy. Stannis will be curious as to why I request it. He'll discern any paltry excuse."

Clark had thought about this himself for the past few weeks. He definitely didn't need the rest of Westeros hearing rumblings of the White Walkers and particularly of Lord Stark taking actions to prevent them. They'd think him insane. Even if they traded with Ned Stark, if they knew that he believed the North was headed for desperate times, they would drive up the price of trade.

He suspected that Stannis Baratheon was not a lord who would take extreme advantage of Ned Stark. He knew the two respected each other. But that was still no reason not to be careful.

"I suppose there are a few options," Clark offered. "You can tell him that a Northern hill tribe was discovered to value dragonglass highly and that they will trade quite cheaply with it. You can say the same with the free folk. That you're making overtures and they find it pretty. You could say that your smiths are trying to recreate some Valyrian steel and they heard that its core ingredient is obsidian."

Ned gave him a quick look. "Is that true?"

"No idea." He tapped his fingers against the tabletop. "Actually forget that. That'll probably just get you more attention than you want. I'd go with the tribe or free folk excuse."

"Sorcha will be here in a sennight," muttered Ned, his fingers running across his calendar. "If she's open to it, we can corroborate a story for Lord Stannis."

"Can she be trusted?"

"She has no sights set beyond her hills," answered Ned without any hesitation. "It was difficult enough, getting her to come to Winterfell. If she agrees to the ruse, she'll keep it."

Clark walked to the other edge of the map. He now stood beyond the wall.

"And the Free Folk?"

Ned went back to his desk. "I wrote to the Night's Watch four weeks prior. They had elected a new Lord Commander last year, Jeor Mormont. I suggested a formal Warden's visit to meet the Lord Commander, though we've met previously quite a number of times. The purpose of the visit would be to gauge their situation, their supplies and what assistance that the North might be able to provide. He responded quickly. Agreeing to the request. Four months from now, I'll be leaving Winterfell for that visit."

"My lord," said Clark, an idea forming in his head. "May I accompany you?"

Ned gave him a piercing look. "Why?"

"Castle Black has a library. One that is barely touched, or so I imagine. I'm sure they'll be willing to part with some of their volumes."

"You know who their maester is?"

Clark sighed. "I do."

Ned lowered his voice. "Do you plan to tell Aemon Targaryen about his great great nephew?"

"It's tempting. Maester Aemon is a kind, wise old man and it would bring him joy to learn that Rhaegar's son lives." admitted Clark. "However, a secret becomes more dangerous if you reveal it, even to those you trust. Jon's safety is not guaranteed if more and more people know it. So no, I will not tell Aemon at this point."

"At this point?"

Aware that killing Petyr might have postponed King Robert's death, Clark shrugged. "On his deathbed, perhaps. But not now, I promise."

"So why do you want to come?"

"I wasn't lying about the library. Castle Black is the most northern…well, castle of the Seven Kingdoms. There must be volumes in there that one wouldn't find anywhere else in Westeros. About the White Walkers, Children of the Forest, all that. Tomes in the Old Tongue. And no one's reading them. The Maester's a blind man for God's sake."

There was a fixed silence as Ned stared him down. Clark relented.

"I also want to follow up on Craster."

"You want to kill him."

Clark sighed. "Yes. Yes, I do."

"If the Night's Watch has us as their guest, we cannot eliminate their allies. Even the unsavory ones."

"Craster is not their ally," said Clark, a little louder than he meant to. He lowered his voice. "Craster is strengthening their enemy. He enjoys the protection of the Night's Watch and goes behind them to the White Walkers. He needs to be eliminated."

"How? How is Craster strengthening the White Walkers?"

Clark didn't answer right away. He just couldn't. Ned's eyes bored into him.

"Remember your promise? Made only moments prior."

Clark sighed. God damn it.

"He's giving them his sons."

"What?"

"I don't know how. But somehow Craster has reached an agreement with the White Walkers. Or he will very shortly. They spare him, his wives, his daughters, his keep…and in exchange, he gives them his sons. As soon as they're born."

The fire crackled. Clark forced himself to continue.

"Up in the North, in the Lands of Always Winter, the leader of the White Walkers waits. I don't know his real name. He was a man thousands of years ago, but no more. He was given a moniker, the Night King. The sons of Craster are brought to the Night King and given to him. But he doesn't kill or sacrifice them, not in the traditional sense. He changes them. When they're young and malleable, he changes them into White Walkers.

"That's how he was able to grow an army of that size. More lieutenants who traversed beyond the Wall, attacking Free Folk tribes and villages. I don't know how many White Walkers the Night King currently has under him. I don't know how many sons Craster has already sacrificed, if he has already. But if we allow Craster to live, his sons will enable the Army of the Dead to grow exponentially. That's why I told you to kill him, even before I left two months ago."

Lord Stark sat quietly through all of this, his eyes a calm storm. In Clark's opinion, he was a little too calm. But then again, he hadn't witnessed the Hardhome massacre.

"This is true?"

Clark nodded. "I've seen it. It begins in the eyes. The Night King places a finger to the babe's face. He's surprisingly gentle about the whole thing. They don't even cry."

He cleared his throat.

"If Craster doesn't know what the Night King is doing exactly, he at least knows that he's fucking over the Night's Watch. And mankind as well."

"Then why not reveal his treachery?" asked Ned. "Tell the Lord Commander what you've told me and let them deal with Craster."

"Craster may be a disgusting, treacherous and horrible man," said Clark. "But he's still a man of the Free Folk. The Night Watch needs to start making peace with the Free Folk. It can't start with them killing Craster. Craster is known as an ally to the Night's Watch. How can you convince the other Free Folk to come to the table when they hear of his death by a bunch of crows?"

He went to the chair by the hearth and leaned against it.

"I know that Craster is not well-regarded by the Free Folk. But I don't know if they'll react badly to his death. It needs to be me. An insignificant man."

Clark wasn't sure if he believed all that. Truth be told, he wasn't sure if he could possibly convince Jeor Mormont of the White Walker threat just yet. There probably haven't been any sightings and thus he had no cause to eliminate his only wildling ally.

"Where is Craster's keep?" asked Ned.

"North of Castle Black. Not sure how far."

"Is it more than a day's walk?"

"Yes," answered Clark blithely. He turned to see Ned's face. It was quite incredulous. "Well, it's not far. It's not like I'm going up to the Lands of Always Winter. I can find out when I get to Castle Black, but it's not an impossible journey."

"How are you going to do this?" asked Ned, his tone bewildered. "A journey of probably several days? Alone beyond the Wall? It's much colder up there than it is in Winterfell. You'll freeze or starve before you even get near Craster."

There was a silence in the solar. Clark walked from the chair back to the map, facing Ned.

"Lord Stark," he began. "Trust me, when I say that I can handle the cold beyond the Wall. It's no stranger to me. I'm not saying there's no risk, but killing Craster is a gamble that could pay off immensely for the North. I don't need you to understand how I'll survive. All I need from you is your approval to accompany you to the Wall and an opportunity to go beyond, without the Night's Watch knowledge if necessary. Will that be possible?"

They stared at each other for a solid while. Finally Ned breathed and nodded.

"Very well. Four months from now, you'll accompany me and my men to the Wall. You'll speak nothing of Jon to Maester Aemon. You'll select some books for our library and when we leave to inspect Eastwatch, you'll have your chance to disappear beyond the Wall, to face Craster."

Clark nodded, smiling. "Thank you, Lord Stark. But I promise you, I won't disappear. I'll come back."

Ned did not return his smile. "You shouldn't be so confident. If what you warned me of is true, there are things beyond the Wall that one man cannot handle. You smile at the thought of entering that cold and murdering a man. Are you fully aware of what you've asked of me?"

The smile dropped from Clark's face instantly. "Lord Stark, I was simply grateful that you acquiesced my request. I don't mean to make light of what I must do."

Lord Stark nodded. "All right then. I'll speak to you later as the departure nears." He went to his desk and sat down.

Clark gave a short nod and left, sensing the dismissal. He strode down the corridors, his mind wandering.

Am I making too light of the situation? Minimizing the implications of my actions, dismissing the difficulty of carrying them out? Killing Petyr was horrifying and hard, but did it also embolden me too much? I got away with it. He hasn't been dead a month and I'm already planning the next one, cheerful to go beyond the Wall. Into the cold that I'm pretty sure won't affect me. What if I wake up one morning and my immunity's gone? What if killing simply becomes harder and harder?

Or the opposite? What if it becomes even easier? Do I become as ruthless as Tywin? Destroying everything to shape a future that maybe wasn't meant to be?

Clark walked on, unable and unwilling to dismiss these thoughts. Sometimes there were days when he just couldn't shake them.

During his workout that night, Clark heard the door creak open behind him. He was suspended from a ledge, fully extending preparing for a final pull-up. The intruder stayed by the door and he decided to finish before speaking.

He'd increased his repetitions and his arms were burning, protesting the abuse. However the trip beyond the wall was looming in his mind and it pushed him to be as physically fit as possible for that landscape, even if the beginning of spring would bar the worst cold. So ignoring his stress and leaning into that power gifted into his fingers, he brought himself up slowly and methodically. He stayed for a time, lifted the rest of his body and sat on the ledge, breathing heavily and looking to the open door.

Jon was at the door, his face questioning. Clark nodded.

"Hello Jon," he called from the ledger, in between breaths. "How have you been these past two months?"

The boy shrugged. "I've been all right."

Clark shoved himself off the ledge, landing lightly on the ground. "Did you come here for a spar?"

Jon nodded. "Aye."

He followed Clark as they traveled from the stables to the training yard.

"Have you been training with Ser Rodrik every day?" asked Clark, as they entered the deserted area.

"And Robb. Theon too." Jon added, a little too darkly.

"How's their swordplay?"

They came to the racks with the wooden swords. Jon considered the question, his lips pursing.

"Robb's good," he said finally. "He's not as fast as me though. I have to slow down for him." He pulled his reliable practice sword out. "And Theon's stronger than us both. A little faster than me."

Clark selected his own sword. "Well, he is older. That will even out." He strode out to the yard and took his position. "Do you not get on well with Theon?"

Jon lowered his eyes to the ground. Clark gently brought his sword to Jon's chin, prompting it up.

"And you're dead." He dropped his arm, but Jon's face remained on his. "Eyes up in the yard, always. I know Ser Rodrik taught you that at least." He lowered his sword. "What about Theon, Jon?"

There was a slight jerk to Jon's frame. He had fought the instinct to bow his head and won. Now he was just staring at Clark, and he could see for the first time in Jon's eyes, an anger in his sadness. Not a full rage, but still something that would foster in his decision to leave Winterfell for the Night's Watch as a teenager.

"He calls me bastard as much as he calls me Jon," he said quietly. "I don't like him."

Clark still didn't know whether or not he wanted Jon Snow to join the Night's Watch again, given that he could take steps to avoid Jon's death. There was misery at the Wall to be sure, but beyond that, Jon found people other than his siblings, black brothers and Free Folk alike, who accepted him unconditionally, based on his own merits and not just his presumed name. The boy before him wanted that community. A throne wouldn't give him that.

However that could be decided at a different time. Jon's eyes after that last statement couldn't help, but lower. Clark let him brood for a few seconds before speaking.

"It's cruel what Theon is doing," he started as evenly as he could. "And it is natural that you should be angry by his insults…Jon, do you remember what I said to you about Theon during that feast when your father came home from the rebellion?"

Jon nodded. "His father and brothers are all gone."

"They're dead and Theon has to reckon with that. He's now a hostage. He feels angry about that. And yet he and Robb get on well and Lord Stark treats him with dignity and that probably only confuses him more. Why am I starting to like my captors? What does that say about me? Am I truly Ironborn?

"People who are confused and angry usually lash out at vulnerable people. And now here's you, a bastard, someone vulnerable, someone who will always be beneath him, in his eyes at least. You're an easy target for his snide comments."

"I don't want to be a target," said Jon, his eyes blazing. "I just want him to stop."

Clark knelt before him. "Jon, he's not going to stop. Not as long as he sees it causes you pain. Even if you manage to hide it, he'll probably still continue."

Jon breathed, the anger melting into something sadder. "Then what can I do?"

Wear it like armor…He didn't know if it was the time to repeat Tyrion's words to Jon. At least not the same phrasing. Tyrion could tell Jon himself several years on.

"It's only yourself that you have to worry about. Theon's attitude toward you is not your concern. If he calls you bastard, you have a choice. You either let it hurt you, send you into misery and strike the training dummies down to straw. Or you can let it go and realize that Theon's insults and Lady Catelyn's glares are their way of dealing with their pains.

"I'm not saying it's right," he continued, seeing Jon's face. "They are wrong for taking out their pain on a vulnerable child. In a perfect world, they wouldn't be able to do that. This isn't a perfect world, Jon. Far from it. But you can make the choice to rise above it and dismiss their insults and their fears. It's very difficult. But the more you let the word bastard slide off you instead of slapping you in the face, the easier it becomes. There will be a day when it's just a stupid word for stupid people when they have nothing left."

The expression on Jon's face was difficult to read. It didn't look happy, but it wasn't angry anymore. Maybe just determined…

Clark stood. "Tell you what. I'll see what I can do about Theon. I'll try not to mention you so it doesn't look like you came crying to me…but I'll see what I can do. Does that sound all right?"

Jon nodded.

"All right, then. Would you like to show me what you've learned in the past six weeks?"

The next five minutes were ferocious. Clark had never seen Jon spar like it before. The boy actually got a couple of hits in, something that hadn't happened for half a year. It wasn't out of anger though. Joy was beginning to spark in Jon's eyes.

"Did you train with Arya like this?" asked Clark, rubbing his hip when Jon had struck him.

Jon shook his head, smiling. "I tried. She just keeps coming forward with the stick, trying to whack me. I'm trying to get her to stand on the defensive."

Clark laughed. "Best of luck with that."

"But she likes it though."

"I told you she would."

Jon's smile quickly disappeared as he looked behind Clark. The boy backed up from Clark immediately, dropping his sword to his side.

Clark turned to see Ser Rodrik Cassel standing by the brazier, his hand resting easy on the hilt of his sword. His expression was inscrutable, his eyes piercing Clark's own steadily. Determined not to be cowed, Clark nodded to the knight.

"Good evening, Ser Rodrik."

Ser Rodrik gave a nod to the greeting and stepped forward, coming to a halt a safe distance away. Clark glanced at Jon, who kept his eyes on Ser Rodrik. A brief silence followed, as Ser Rodrik looked between the both of them.

"Well?" he said. "Do continue."

Jon, after a few seconds of processing what he just heard, got into his starting postion. Clark hesitated, trying to discern the expression in Ser Rodrik's eyes. The knight met his eyes evenly and Clark simply saw a calculated daring, neither friendly or hostile.

Ultimately it didn't matter. Whatever Ser Rodrik was thinking, he was the true authority of the training yard. So Clark turned to Jon and took his position.

The spar began with them circling each other, Jon taking the first step. They circled for about ten seconds before Jon came forward with his first swing. Clark caught the sword with his and spun Jon away.

Jon recovered his footing quickly and swung again. And again and again. Each time he struck, Clark was there to greet his sword. He remained on the defensive, never taking the openings that Jon left. Something in him didn't feel right about it, not in front of Ser Rodrik.

Eventually Jon must have realized this. He stopped and stood panting, sword at the ready, staring at Clark. They were both waiting for each other now.

Okay, maybe just one move.

Clark stepped and jabbed his sword forward. Jon sidestepped it and countered, only to have his sword pushed away by Clark's, coming back from the jab. The boy reacted smartly though, going with his sword and stepping out of the way to avoid Clark's next swing.

Jon readied and struck again, more viciously than before. Clark could feel the jolt through his forearm.

"All right, that's enough," called Ser Rodrik. Jon relaxed immediately, backing down. "Lad, put those two swords away and go inside. You're done training for tonight."

"Yes, Ser Rodrik," said Jon. Clark handed the wooden sword to Jon without a word. Jon put the swords away quickly and left, leaving Clark alone with Ser Rodrik.

The knight stepped up to Clark, staring at him directly in the eyes. Clark returned the favor. Thankfully the contest didn't last long before Ser Rodrik spoke.

"Tiresias," Ser Rodrik said. "I don't believe that we've ever conversed at length. Man-to-man."

"I suspect you're right there, Ser Rodrik," said Clark, adding the title a little too late.

"Well, I would amend that tonight, if you have the hour free." Ser Rodrik took a breath, his whole frame easing. "What say you? Would you join me for a drink in Wintertown, Tiresias?"

The name rolled off his tongue easy enough, but he still sounded suspicious. Nevertheless, Clark didn't see any advantage to refusing this request.

"Certainly, Ser Rodrik." He reached for his jacket. "Would you be willing to wait for me at the gate, Ser? So that I may fetch my purse."

Ser Rodrik waved the question away. "No need, Tiresias, no need. Tonight's drinks come at the expense of yours truly."

Clark pulled on his jacket, nodding. "Thank you kindly. After you then."

A half hour later, Ser Rodrik and Clark clinked their mugs and toasted Winterfell, the Starks, the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion and the coming of spring. Ale coursed down his throat easily. He felt mildly embarrassed when he saw how Ser Rodrik has taken only a small sip of his drink.

"Not to worry, Ser Rodrik," he nodded to the knight across from him. "I may drink quickly but not much. The ale you'll purchase tonight won't break you."

Ser Rodrik shook his head, with a small smile. "I'm not worried about that, Tiresias."

The knight's smile did not reach his eyes and he didn't speak further. Clark waited for a moment. He knew this trick. Silence prompts a nervous man to speak first more often than naught. Nevertheless, he broke the silence. He wasn't in the mood for games tonight.

"What's on your mind, Ser Rodrik? What do you wish to say to me, man-to-man?"

"Do you train with Jon often?" asked Ser Rodrik.

Clark nodded. "A few times every sennight. In the evenings when we're both done with our day."

"Why?"

"I wanted to learn how to fight with a sword and it seemed like Jon needed a friend."

Ser Rodrik tapped the table. "He's been teaching you?"

"He has. I had no experience with a sword before I came to Winterfell. I came to the yard one night and saw Jon training. I asked him for some help and he gave it. I'm no house guard or soldier or squire. Who else could I approach for beginning swordsmanship? Who'll take a librarian seriously in that regard?"

"Only a gullible and lonesome boy," answered Ser Rodrik.

"That's not how I view it, Ser," said Clark. He sipped his ale. "I wanted to learn how to use a sword and I wanted to raise the boy's spirits. I found a way to do both."

A group of farmers at the other end of the taverns started a song. Ser Rodrik's brow furrowed at it, possibly unconsciously.

"Why did you come to Winterfell?" asked Ser Rodrik in a low voice.

"For work," said Clark. "On Lord Reed's recommendation."

"For the library. A library which had been run adequately in the past with just the castle maester. A library which Lord Stark decided to expand after one secret conversation with you. He'd never shown any interest in such a venture before."

Clark breathed steadily through his nose, his pulse threatening to throb too quickly.

"I wasn't aware that you were so concerned with Winterfell's library, Ser Rodrik. I've been here for a year. Never seen you in that tower."

Ser Rodrik leaned forward.

"What did you say to Lord Stark?" he murmured.

"Something for his ears alone," answered Clark, he hoped with some finality.

It didn't work. Ser Rodrik continued.

"What did you say to him to let you continue to stay at Winterfell? To invent a job for you? To consult you immediately after he heard of the Greyjoy assault?"

"Have you asked Lord Stark this?"

"I'm asking you here. Now."

"What do you believe, Ser Rodrik? That I threatened Lord Stark? That I blackmailed him into some foul arrangement? One in which I stay in Winterfell and improve a library? For fair wages? I'm not stealing the wealth of House Stark."

"All I know is that you're a charlatan," said Ser Rodrik, his eyes blazing. "You're not a man I trust. You say you're a librarian. I don't know any man of letters who could down Anthor Apperford in two hits."

Clark didn't blink. "The man was drunk and it took more than two hits."

"He has a hundred pounds on you and you beat him, is all I heard." Ser Rodrik took a draught. "Is that true?"

"What does my word matter, if you don't trust me?" said Clark, wincing a little once he said it. He looked around the room. Their conversation remained unnoticed by the rest of the patrons. Most of the attention was toward the terrible singing of the farmers. Clark turned back to Ser Rodrik.

"Ser Rodrik, I don't want to fight with you," said Clark. "You're right, in that Lord Stark essentially invented this job for me. The library is a project that isn't urgent to the North but I'm doing my best with it. I came to Winterfell to belong somewhere and Lord Stark was kind enough to do that for me. I asked for work. He asked me my skills. I told him truthfully, reading, writing. I had also worked in archives for a time. And he gave me the library to revitalize. But I'm not here to sabotage the Starks or take advantage of Ned Stark's famous honor. I work for my keep. You can talk to Maester Luwin if you don't believe me."

Ser Rodrik looked to the table for the first time. "I did," he admitted. "He says you're a hard worker, and you're keen-minded."

"That's very kind of him."

Clark took a sip. Upon lowering his cup, he saw that Ser Rodrik had fixed his eyes on Clark again.

"So, tell me truthfully, Tiresias; why did you have to speak to Lord Stark privately the first day you arrived? You could have asked for a job with the petitioners, presented the reference from Lord Reed then? What did you have to say to him that couldn't be passed along?"

Clark leaned forward.

"I told him something that pertained to the safety of his family."

"I am the master-of-arms of Winterfell. The Stark's safety is my duty."

"If Lord Stark wishes to tell you what I said, he may. But it's not my place to say." He leaned back. "I apologize, but that's how it must be."

Ser Rodrik didn't speak for a while. He raised his tankard and drank. It didn't give him enough inspiration to continue the conversation. So they sat in silence for a few minutes and Clark finished his ale.

"Shall I order another round?" he asked Ser Rodrik. "Or have you had enough of me man-to-man?"

After a beat, the knight waved the tavern girl over and had another round poured. They clinked their tankards again, without any toasts or salutes. The warm lager coursed through him and Clark dreamed of how delightful a cold drink would feel.

His eyes met Ser Rodrik's over the tankard and he lowered his drink.

So that's two drinks I owe him.

"So Little Jon's your first sword instructor?" asked Ser Rodrik.

Clark nodded. "He is."

"You've never picked up a sword before?"

"A knife…well, had a knife. But yes, never held a sword."

A small smile formed on the knight's face. "Bit of a difference between a knife and a sword, isn't there?"

Clark matched the knight's smile. "Aye. There is." He took another sip. "So, as master-of-arms and an honorable knight…how did I look?"

Ser Rodrik leaned forward. "Like an idiot who's never used a sword before."

That was a little crushing to the spirit, which Clark responded to with another sip. Ser Rodrik continued.

"You're fast. Based on what I heard, you're probably much faster than what you showed me tonight. You've gotten by on that speed and your form…well, it looks like the form you get from secondhand instruction from a young boy."

Clark felt a need to defend Jon, but Ser Rodrik waved it away.

"Jon's a talented lad. Better than most boys with two years on him. If he continues to train, when he's grown, he'll be a force to be reckoned with. That doesn't mean he'll be able to adequately instruct you. Right now, it shows. Your duels are between two beginners, trying to grow. You can't help but take shortcuts. Warriors need discipline when they're starting out. A little boy in want of a friend won't be able to give it to you."

There was a break as Ser Rodrik drank. Clark took it all in. It was more or less what he'd been telling himself from the beginning. He knew that he would have to move on to a sharper instructor if he wanted to survive.

"I would hate to tell Jon that I couldn't spar with him anymore."

"You can still spar with the boy, Tiresias. Jon Snow won't be affected by your inadequate swordsmanship. I'll keep him disciplined. But you need to find someone else as well. Someone you'll allow to beat you down and build you up again. So you won't be caught in a situation where your speed and agility are not enough. Do you understand?"

He wanted to nod and end the conversation. However, he knew that wouldn't be constructive.

"Well, who's gonna to teach me?" he asked. "I'm guessing not you."

"Aye, that'd be a good guess."

"I doubt there's an instructor in Winterfell, who'll make time for a librarian and his errant swordplay."

Ser Rodrik leaned back. "I don't know about that. I talked to a few lads about you. Discretely of course. The ones that saw you fight Anthor. They're intrigued with you. My duty is the training of the soldiers of Winterfell. What they do with that training is their own business. As long as they conduct themselves with honor, it's no concern of mine."

"They wouldn't lose their honor by training a charlatan?"

Their eyes met and for a solid time, they didn't blink. Each resting their eyes easily on the other man. Finally Ser Rodrik spoke.

"You are a charlatan. I don't have any doubt about that. I don't know why you're here in Winterfell and that does bother me. But, if Lord Stark is satisfied with what you've said to him, then I must be as well. It's my way. Besides I don't know an evil man who would put such time into cheering a lonely child."

The walk back to Winterfell was quiet at first, with Ser Rodrik seeming quite content with the silence. They'd come to an unsteady truce. However, Clark was not quite satisfied. He wetted his lips and whistled softly.

It was a bit of a bastard rendition of the Barber of Seville…at least as much as he could remember from the Bugs Bunny cartoon. He only went on for about a minute before looking over to Ser Rodrik's face. The knight's face had tightened considerably.

"Are you not a music lover, Ser Rodrik?"

He gave a fierce shake of his head. "I've a low tolerance for it, Tiresias."

"Duly noted."

Clark stood in his small gym. He doubted he would have total privacy in this space for very long. With the construction surrounding the Broken Tower, there seemed to be not a single area of Winterfell that wasn't being utilized for the project. Whether it be storage area, a work place or anything else.

He had just picked up his finished dagger from Mikken. The sheath was attached to his belt and he was running his fingers over the blade. It was beautiful Northern steel. Simple, unadorned, and strong. He knew that it wouldn't hold to Valyrian steel, but it was still a significant upgrade from his last weapon.

Throwing his furs to his side, he faced a wooden pillar. He held the dagger by the tip, feeling the balance. He then gripped and threw it quickly. It lodged in the pillar, a little lower than he wanted.

Not quite the accuracy I saw from Arya during the forgeplay between her and Gendry…but not bad.

He extracted the knife and sheathed it, before picking up his cloak and leaving the room, stepping out into the stables. Rod gave him a strange look. The lad was used to him going in and out of the small room. The sound of the dagger striking the wood was new though.

Clark nodded to Rod and proceeded out of Winterfell and into the town. He went off the main path to a patch of smaller cottages. Pulling up to the third one, he knocked. The door opened to reveal a spry woman who barely came up to his chest.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Hello there. My name is Tiresias. I'm a friend of Gord. Is he here?"

The woman brightened at the mention of her son. "He is. 'Round the back." A repetitive whack was sounding from the mentioned area.

"Thank you," said Clark, before going around the small cottage. Gord stood with an axe, chopping firewood. The pile of wood already cut was so big, it looked comical.

"Gord!" he called. Gord jumped as he was beginning to swing and turned to see Clark.

"Tiresias," he called back. "What you doing here?"

"Came to see you. Can you spare the time?"

"Aye" nodded Gord. "I can give you some. Wait a minute here, will ya?"

"All right." He waited as Gord lodged the axe into the stump and wiped his face with a cloth

"You prepared to burn the whole house down, Gord? Your mother with it?" asked Clark, nodding to the huge wood pile.

"She chills easily," responded Gord. "This winter was mild, Gods be praised, but still I like her to have enough."

Clark stepped forward, examining to the pile. "This should do it."

"Almost done. Now, how can I help ye?"

Hoping that Gord wouldn't read the action as a threat, Clark unsheathed his dagger. Gord didn't seem to worry though.

"That your new blade?"

Clark nodded, flipping the dagger and offering it to Gord. The big man took it, grasping it lightly, then firmly. He gave the blade a once-over, running his finger carefully along the edge.

"Mikken does good work," he said appreciatively. "A true weapon over your last piece."

"It is," Clark said, taking a breath before his next sentence. "Gord, I don't know how to use it."

Gord paused from his appreciation of the dagger, fixing Clark with a stare before looking back to the knife. "Well, the sharp edge's here. You hold it here…"

Clark rolled his eyes, but couldn't stop a chuckle, especially at Gord's smartass smile.

"I meant fighting. Gord…I need your help. I can skin an animal, throw it decently, I know a few places where men bleed more freely, but…if someone comes up to me and it becomes a fight between their weapon and mine…I don't know how well I'll fare."

"Horseshit, man. I've seen you fight. Anthor couldn't touch you."

"That's just fisticuffs...plus a foot to the face. What happens when we wield blades?"

Gord's smile was slowly disappearing. "What about Jon? You and him, you spar quite a bit."

Clark hoped that Jon wouldn't take this the wrong way. "And we'll continue to do so, as long as he wants. I like sparring with him. But I cannot wait until he's grown to duel with a bigger opponent. I started sparring with Jon because I didn't even know the basics of swordplay and now…now, I need something more. So, could you help me? Please?"

Anxiety filled him as he waited for Gord to consider the question. The Stark soldier crossed his arms as he did so.

"How often do you spar with Jon in the evenings? Is it a set schedule?" he asked finally.

Clark shook his head. "It's not. One of us would usually approach the other. About three times each sennight."

"Well, if you don't want to stop sparring with the boy, you'll need to set aside certain nights for you two. You want my help, our time together will need to be set around my duties. Is that all right?"

A weight left Clark's chest.

Ask and you shall receive…sometimes.

"Yes, yes, that's all right."

Gord picked up the axe again. "I'll meet you in the training yard tomorrow before supper."

"Before?" The training yard was usually full right before then. Soldiers and guards cleaned the equipment after a day's use. "That's a little bit of an unwanted audience, Gord."

His concerns were waved away. "They'll leave for supper before we get started. I'll say I've got additional duties that night." Gord stuck out his hand. "Does that sound all right?"

Clark shook his hand. "It does. Thank you, Gord, thank you. I'll repay you somehow. I swear it."

Gord laughed. "How? I earn more than you."

"Fair point. See you tomorrow night."

A week later, Clark wandered over to the archery range. Through the grapevine, he had heard that the young Greyjoy hostage spent his free afternoons there.

Sure enough, Theon stood with his bow taut and ready to fire, as tall and proud as the boy could muster. Clark stood in the shadows, letting him have his concentration. This was the one place where Theon Greyjoy, thinking himself alone, dropped his youthful bravado.

He released the arrow. Clark's eyes managed to follow it to the target, where it stuck in the outer margins, along with the previous arrows.

Theon threw down his bow. "Piss and blood!" he hissed, his voice pitching high. He turned and froze, seeing Clark under the balcony.

Clark merely nodded. He strode past Theon toward the target and extracted all the arrows in the hard-packed straw. Once he was done, he walked back to Theon and deposited all the arrows in the standing quiver.

He finally looked to Theon, who was just looking like he didn't know what to make of him.

"How old are you, Theon Greyjoy?"

Theon blinked and for a second, he seemed to want to challenge Clark, fixing him with a stare. However, Clark returned his look and waited patiently. Finally, the boy relented.

"Nine."

"Well, Theon, I've never seen a nine-year-old marksman before." He glanced to the target. "At least, all your arrows managed to hit the straw and stick. Your opponent is now critically injured, probably be dead come evening."

That didn't elicit a laugh from Theon. Clark sighed.

"That jape never works. My name is Tiresias, by the way."

"I know what your name is," Theon muttered.

"Well, at the risk of sounding patronizing, the point is, you shouldn't get frustrated because you're not an expert yet. That'll come with time, practice and more delightful swears. My personal favorite is Fuck you, you fucking fuck."

That got a wide-eyed response from Theon.

Clark opened his bag and pulled out two small tomes.

"I was going over the works detailing the Stark history. Found some works that could interest you, if you find it in your spare time to crack open a book."

Theon looked only barely interested, but the sight of a tall adult handing you something is hard to resist when one's still a child. He glanced at the top one.

"The War Across the Waters," he read out loud, his interest piquing at the title.

"It involves one who shares your namesake," remarked Clark. "Theon Stark, who defeated the greatest Andal invader, Argos Sevenstar and raised a fleet to take the Three Sisters and attack the Fingers…with the bloody corpse of Argos attached to the bow of his flagship."

Theon's eyes widened at that. Clark raised a warning finger.

"Don't get too excited by that, Theon. That accounting is not for you to develop a bloodlust."

The boy's eyes fell and he raised the second tome.

"And this?"

"The Sailing Wolf. An accounting of Brandon the Shipwright. A Stark who loved to sail and who raised the Northern naval fleet to a mighty strength."

"His son burned all the ships," murmured Theon.

"You know of him?"

"My father…" Theon stopped himself, looking at Clark with wide eyes.

"Your father?" asked Clark, not too gently. He knew the boy had no desire to be coddled.

Theon swallowed. "My father liked to laugh about it. About Brandon the Burner. How he destroyed the ships. How the wolf king crippled the North through his tears. He was a king, and he was weaker than a woman."

The boy's voice grew quieter. But if Theon Greyjoy was in danger of tears, he didn't show it. Not to Tiresias nor to any resident of Winterfell. To any man in that regard.

Clark sighed. "Brandon the Burner may have been a king. He also was a son grieving for his father. He didn't have to destroy the ships though. It was a grand fleet by many accounts." He tapped the tome in Theon's hands. "This is just one of them, more of a cheery retelling. What do you say? Enough to chance a read?"

Theon looked over the tomes again before nodding.

"Good," said Clark. "I want those back in the same condition, mind you. You're welcome to take as many books from the library as you want. But for the sake of my sanity, please handle them carefully. Agreed?"

Theon nodded, placing the two tomes on the table next to him. Clark picked up the bow, running his hands over it.

"A little small for me," he said. "Do you mind if I borrow your target for a round of arrows?"

Surprise ran over the boy's face. "What?"

"Your bow and arrows? May I borrow them for shooting?"

Theon's smile came back, with mild arrogance lining it. "You dabble in books. What do you know of archery?"

Clark shrugged. "I suppose we'll find out." He unclasped his cloak and removed it, placing it and his bag on the table.

It wasn't his first time at the archery range in Winterfell. He had already run his brain dry, trying to remember all the tips he had picked up at Boy Scout camp. All it was now was practice. The arrows he shot weren't humiliating, but his progress was slow.

Dear Lord, please make me look somewhat competent.

He set his feet and nocked an arrow.

Don't take your time. That's one thing you'll won't have in battle. Thanks for the tip, Anguy.

The arrow was released along with his breath.

And it wasn't a bad shot. It was quick, sure and stuck in the third margin from the center. Whoever would have been on the receiving end of that arrow would have been quite hurt.

He turned to Theon with a shrug. The arrogance was still there, but it was more tempered.

"Aye, I know," said Clark. "Not my strong suit. But I work on it."

"I shoot better than what you saw," said Theon. "I really do."

"I believe you," said Clark. "Robb and Jon say you're the best archer among them. I hear you regularly hit the center."

He nocked another arrow.

"I also hear you're a bit of a prick."

He released the arrow. It hit the second margins this time, right of center. Clark turned back to see Theon's expression. It was more sober and a little defensive.

"I don't blame you," Clark said. "Well, not that much, but I do understand. My father and siblings may not have been killed in a rebellion. But I do know what it's like to lose everything you once knew and to be an outsider in the North."

He picked up his third arrow, nocked it, pulling the string back.

"I also miss the sea as well. I grew up around water and it's…well, it's beautiful here. But there's always something missing."

The arrow hit near his second one. As he pulled for his fourth arrow, he saw Theon's face. His guard was up, but he hadn't run away.

"I'm sure you knew that I wasn't a Northerner?"

"You're not a prisoner," said Theon.

Clark shook his head.

"No…no, I'm not." He lowered the bow and arrow. "I suppose I wouldn't know what's worse for you. Having suspicious and mean eyes on you for your father's rebellion…or being told you're lucky to be Lord Stark's prisoner."

Theon's eyes widened before he could stop them. He quickly looked away, but he stayed put. Clark raised his bow and fired. The arrow entered the first margin just left of center.

"Neither."

"Excuse me?" asked Clark.

Theon swallowed. "Never mind."

Clark reached for the final arrow. He didn't nock it though.

"I suppose it's also challenging for you. You really like Robb Stark. He's your friend. You like Lord Stark. His strength is unlike your fathers. It draws you and you hate that. What am I doing? Growing cozy with the enemy of my family."

"I said never mind," insisted Theon, his voice raising slightly. The defense was raised again.

Clark rubbed his temple. A little too much, too soon.

"Theon, I gave you those tomes because I wanted you to see something before it was too late. Before you became more confused. There is a place here for you at Winterfell. Maybe it's a little tense now. But the rebellion is over. You're not betraying your father or brothers, because you've become friendly with the heir of Winterfell. Your grandfather certainly wouldn't have thought so.

"You're a Greyjoy. You'll always be a Greyjoy and nothing will change that. But if you wish, you can be something else too. As the years go by, you can become a rock in the lives of these people. You can be valued. You can be loved."

Clark turned to the target and shot his final arrow. It didn't quite hit center, but it was only a few inches off. He offered the bow to Theon.

"Or you can grow into a bigger asshole. It's your choice."

Theon took the bow wordlessly. Clark walked and extracted his arrows from the target. When he returned, Theon was still in the same spot, gazing at the bow, not really seeing it. Clark placed the arrows back in the quiver and fastened his cloak.

"When was the last time you wrote to your sister, Theon?"

That brought the boy out of his daze. He shook his head.

"I haven't."

Clark picked up his bag. "If I were you, I would. It might save you some trouble down the road. When you're searching for some balance. If she gives you grief for becoming too Northern. Not to mention that it'd be nice to actually correspond with remaining family members. She probably misses you."

Theon's eyes fell to the ground. "She's fat and ugly."

"Didn't realize your family had to be pretty to remain family. Besides, Theon," said Clark, kneeling down to his level. "You're nine and you know nothing of women."

He smiled and clapped Theon on the shoulder, before standing to walk away. He turned though a second later.

"Theon, could you do me a favor?"

The boy looked at him warily.

"Would you treat Jon with a bit more respect? Not call him a bastard?"

A small sneer formed on Theon's face. "He is a bastard."

"Aye and you're jealous of him."

Theon blanched. "I'm not jealous."

"He's Lord Stark's blood. Talented with a sword. He's a good kid. Quite a few people in Winterfell like him and Robb loves him. He's his brother." Clark had a certain knack to deal with angry children. Speaking shortly and calmly. He thought of his niece again. For the first time in weeks.

He sighed and put that thought aside, trying not to show how much it saddened him.

"It's natural, but trust me. If Robb comes to see you as his brother, he'll have enough love for the two of you and everyone else. If you don't like Jon personally, you don't have to be around him. Though I would be kinder. Jon's a good friend to have."

Theon's eyes were to the ground again. Clark tapped his bag.

"Thank you for allowing me to shoot. It was very fun. I hope to see you in the library, Theon. Enjoy the books."

He turned and walked away. He could feel Theon's eyes on his retreating back.

Was that a conversation that would benefit Theon? He honestly didn't know. He tried to be kind, unpatronizing and constructive. He hoped it worked. He wanted the friendship he saw in the show to grow. To see Robb and Theon and the rest of the Starks enjoy their time together.

He certainly didn't want the young boy in the yard to grow up to be Ramsay's plaything. Broken men could be very strong if they are healed, but it's not a path that one willingly would go on. And it wasn't one that Clark had the heart to set for someone else.