Chapter 15

Clark woke up in a flop sweat, his throat swollen. He sat up slowly, trying to calm himself. Eventually the pressure in his throat lessened and he swallowed. He rubbed his brow, still slightly panting.

"Fu…," he murmured, not bothering to finish the curse.

Rain was pounding against the window and he could hear thunder in the distance. Official spring showers. A white raven arrived from the Citadel two months ago. The brief winter was over. The cold was still here though, especially further north. Beyond the wall, this rain would have been snow.

Clark climbed out of bed. He had no idea what time it was. He walked over to the basin and grabbed the pitcher. He drank heavily, finishing it with a sigh. Glancing to the window and the storm outside, he crawled back into bed.

After twenty minutes or so, he accepted that attempting to fall back asleep was futile. He was too tired to sleep…if that made any sense. Plus, if he fell asleep, she might be there again, hanging, her red hair blowing in the harbor wind…

He got up and by candlelight, constructed a fire to keep him company. As it grew, he blew out the candle and sat on his pillow in front of the flames.

The whore in Gulltown had occupied his dreams frequently for the last few weeks. It was odd, at least he thought so. Upon his return from Gulltown and the first two months back, he had hardly thought on it at all or let it consume him. The guilt of her death or the horror of taking a man's life by his own hand didn't linger in his mind.

However, in the last month, his dreams began to take him through the harbor again. Sometimes she was there. Sometimes she wasn't. A few times, he was walking on a country road and she was hanging on the side

Once when he was awake, he realized with a start that the hanging red-haired whore who had borne a resemblance to Catelyn Stark was a very possible lookalike for Lady Stoneheart. Not that he was particularly thrilled to make that connection…

As for Littlefinger…all things considered, his guilt was easy through to work through. He didn't regret killing him. He knew what the man would do if left unabated.

His hands had begun to tremble though when he grasped a sharp knife. Not that often but still. There was a dinner last week where he made to cut his beef…and he couldn't sink the blade into the meat, the point of the knife shaking slightly in his enclosed fist. Barth the brewer noticed and inquired after his health. Clark merely shook his head and cited a long day. He tried again, that time successfully.

The next night, he spent hours in the training yard, throwing and working his new dagger. Until he was sure that the same hesitancy wouldn't rear its head at an inappropriate moment. At least as sure as he possibly could be.

He just wasn't a badass. Didn't feel like one. He knew he was blessed with new talents and he could keep a calm enough head, but he still hated the idea of killing. He couldn't even play football as a kid because he didn't like hitting people. Obviously he'd changed a little on that front but it was still something he didn't like.

The crackling of the fire combined with the storm outside made for a meditative atmosphere. He felt the anxieties in his mind lessen as he focused on the dancing flames, the shadows across the stone, the heat on his bare chest…

He winced and brought his hand to his shoulder. Gord had gotten him good the other day in training. If he was allowed to move as he wished and follow the instincts screaming in his head, the spars might have ended differently...

However, for the last three months, he imposed the handicap. He couldn't twirl away, duck, step aside or any way dodge the oncoming attacks. It was all parry, deflect and counter. There would be a day when his speed failed him and he had to defend on actual skill with his sword. If he even had a sword at that point…

Gord, for all his amiability, was a stringent instructor. He was aggressive in duels and actually terrified Clark the first few times. He was strict on Clark's form, but also had enough practical experience to know when to throw formality out the window.

They also worked with his new dagger, incorporating grappling, quick draws, misdirection and learning the vital points. Obviously, all of this was done slowly and carefully. Clark would have hated to have faced Gord's mother after harming her boy.

Clark negotiated for a few days off in which he, Gord, and a few other soldiers went on a hunt through the Wolfswood. It was a strange sight to see the skinny librarian ride out with the soldiers and it was only on the word of Gord that he was able to tag along. When asked further, Clark simply shrugged and said he missed hunting in Essos.

The traps that he had learned from the crannogmen were still fresh in his mind. He practiced them every so often and actually used a few successfully on his excursion to Gulltown. However he wanted more experience outdoors before he attempted to sneak beyond the Wall. He may be immune to the cold, but he still needed food.

He also had never hunted big game before. At first, he was apprehensive about this as he rode into the Wolfswood. Could he really down a beast with an arrow? Then he figured at least by starting with a bow and arrow, that he wouldn't know the relative ease of a rifle.

They set up camp in a clearing that was familiar to them. A few of the other soldiers wanted him to stay and watch the horses, but he put his foot down. All with a calm smile, of course.

"Have you actually ever shot anything?" asked Tadd, who had come along, to Clark's displeasure. "Not including rabbits or anything smaller?"

Clark remained seated and continued to sharpen his arrowheads. He had picked up the technique from the Winterfell archers.

"Don't need an arrow for rabbits. Traps work just fine," he muttered coolly. "Don't concern yourself with me, Tadd. You might want to focus on yourself. Crashing through the bushes like that, you'll scare any animal away."

Tadd was about to retort, when Gord came to his rescue, yelling at everyone to get to sleep, that the hunt was to begin right at daybreak.

At dawn, Gord, Clark and a couple of others in their group, crept west through the forest. Here…what had happened in the Neck, seemed to happen here as well. The night when he had met Dallan, Martan and Annag. Their first indication was a noise and a scent in the darkness…

Clark was by no means a morning person in Maine, but here the forest seemed to come alive. His senses were all on high alert. He could see small animals against their camouflage hundreds of yards away. The sounds of the birdsong were distinct to him and he could tell how many they were, where they sat.

And the smells…not all of it was pleasant, mind. He was alone in the forest with a bunch of men, but things were coming through his nasal cavities that he just didn't register before. The scent of the wind, the moss, the minerals in the dirt…it was incredible. And it caused him to break away from the group, walking northwest.

"Tiresias, what are you doing?" hissed Gord.

Clark stood facing northwest, letting the wind breeze across his face, taking it in. He turned to the others.

"There's something out there in that direction. Not far and we're downwind of it."

"The tracks lead west."

"We can always come back and follow if this doesn't pan out, but there's something out there," insisted Clark, his voice dropping to a whisper. He readied his bow and extracted a couple of arrows in preparation. "Well?"

It took a little more convincing, but finally they agreed to check it out. They quieted their steps on Clark's recommendation and marched slowly northwest. Ten minutes went by and he could sense their annoyance growing, even Gord was looking at him a little antsy. Clark wasn't deterred though. It was close…

He raised his hand and crouched to the ground, the others following him. He snuck up to a fallen tree. Gord came up to him, looking to where Clark was staring.

"I don't see it," he breathed, shaking his head.

Clark pointed, and Gord squinted, following his finger. It took a minute and it had to move, but finally Gord saw it too. A beautiful, fat stag was walking calmly south. It hadn't noticed them.

Gord alerted the others and a couple extracted their bows too. No one else talked. Clark hadn't moved, his bow was already in front of him, his arrows resting against his leg. Once the men were hidden themselves, he felt Gord come behind him.

"You found it. Do you want the first shot?" whispered Gord.

After a beat, Clark nodded. It was better to take his first shot now, rather than beyond the wall without any support. Gord signaled to the others that Tiresias was going to shoot first and turned back to his librarian friend.

"Get to the edge. I'll spy and let you know when it's about to enter your range."

Clark nodded and crept to the edge of the fallen tree, still out of sight from anything coming from the north. He felt Gord behind him. The man moved quite silently for someone his size.

"You ever shot a stag before?" Gord murmured.

Deciding for honesty, Clark shook his head. He knew that Gord wouldn't tell the others.

"Aim for the lung, his broadside. If he keeps going that way, he'll give you a nice shot. Tap you once to nock and draw. Another tap to shoot. All right?"

Clark nodded. Gord checked that they were still downwind and raised his head to peer over the fallen tree. Clark positioned himself and readied his arrow. Ever since his conversation with Lord Stark about heading beyond the Wall, he'd spent some part of every evening in the archery range. He'd improved, definitely but he had never shot anything living.

He stared at the forest, where his target would be coming into sight shortly. Gord hadn't moved yet, and so he waited. The birdsong continued merrily and insects spoke. No indication to the stag that an amateur hunter was waiting to kill him. All for the sake of practice.

A couple of minutes went by. The stag was taking its time. Finally, it came into view but it was still too far. It was a beautiful creature, foraging in the new spring foliage for food.

It continued south. When it was thirty yards away, Gord gave him a light and silent tap on the back. He nocked his arrow and drew. The drawing of the bowstring was slightly prominent in the quiet forest. The stag raised his head to listen, but it didn't flee.

That's what killed it. Clark released his arrow and hit the side of the stag. It jolted for a second before it went down. Nocking another arrow, Clark stepped forward with Gord. The others followed right behind, a few voicing their congratulations.

"Was that all right?" muttered Clark to Gord, out of earshot from the others.

Gord approached the stag carefully.

"He'll die soon enough," Gord declared, before looking up and seeing the look on Clark's face. He cleared his throat. "Course, it'll go quicker. Nice stab through here."

He tapped the spot. Clark dropped his bow and drew his dagger.

First blood this blade will taste is stag…hope this doesn't mean I'll be killing Baratheons…

Clark came to where Gord was crouching. He placed the tip to the indicated spot and pushed. It entered easily enough. Mikken did good work after all. Clark peered over to the stag's face, to his dark eyes with quickly draining spirit.

I'm sorry. Thank you for your meat and skin.

There was an American Indian tribe who apologized and thanked the animals they claimed in their hunts. At least that's what he thought. He couldn't remember the name. Could be total nonsense for all he knew. It just felt right though. The cheers that went through their hunting crew as they surrounded the dead stag didn't sit too comfortably for him.

However that all soon abated. The hunters started to clean the stag. Clark watched their work with an attentive eye. He followed the butcher's work sometimes in Wintertown, but he was still nervous when it came to hunting his own food. He feared poisoning himself or wasting the animal he killed.

The stag was in capable hands however, and so he and the others feasted that night. It honestly didn't taste that good to Clark but he pressed on, chewing slowly and passing on numerous requests to recount his track and kill. However there was one question that kept coming up.

"All right, all right," slurred one soldier, lowering his flask. "No horseshit. How the fuck d'you know where that stag was?"

The soldier stood. Gord steadied him, so he wouldn't topple into the fire.

"He's coming toward…toward us! So you didn't track him. Didn't follow hooves…I'd seen hooves…so how?"

Thankfully the man didn't sound jealous, just bewildered. Clark shrugged and picked his teeth.

"I imagined I was a stag. A great hairy horny fellow." That'll earned a few drunken chuckles. "And I asked…why would I be right now?"

He extracted a little sinew.

"Northwest seemed like a good place to be."

The answer was stupid, but it gave him another laugh and the soldier waved it away and took another swing from his flask. Clark picked up his waterskin and drank, trying to ignore that more than one member of the group was staring at him, not willing to accept the joke and finding his miraculous ability to find game from seemingly nothing more than a little concerning.

It doesn't matter. I've gone hunting. I can find food if there is any beyond the Wall.

He still had a month before Lord Stark's excursion to Castle Black. He hadn't heard from Lord Stark since he gave permission to come. As far as he was aware, no one in the castle knew that he was going along.

Back in his room, Clark yawned. The fire was down to its embers now. The recounting of the hunt had brought back his desire to sleep. The earliest greys of dawn were not yet present. He had time to sleep before the day began.

He crawled back into bed, pulling the covers over, feeling the sleep obliterate his drowsy thoughts…

Plenty of time to sleep. To prepare. To find…a way. A way in which we all don't fucking die.

A week later, Clark felt something he hadn't felt since he had woken up in Westeros. His throat itched and a gulp of fresh water didn't nothing for it.

So it was a sore throat. And Clark felt his mood darken. He hated them, but just went about his business, though he avoided others. It would pass quickly. He supposed he couldn't ask for total immunity in this world from his mysterious all-powerful benefactor.

First the sore throat, then the runny nose and congestion and then we end it with a quick cough. Easy.

However that was not the case. The sore throat was gone quickly enough, but what replaced it was nothing like Clark had ever felt.

The third day of the illness, Clark woke up and made to get out of bed. Except he couldn't. Not on his first try. He propped himself up, prompting a coughing fit. He sat in bed for a long while, trying to get his breath back. He glanced at the rising sun through the window. He didn't have a set time to be in the library, but he needed to get going.

He fumbled into some clothing and made for breakfast. At least he couldn't be chilly anymore.

Managing to get to the kitchens without leaning on the walls, he tried to focus but all the smells just made him want to vomit. He finally just grabbed a half loaf of rye bread and practically ran out, almost stumbling into Mal.

"Watch it!"

"Sorry, Mal, sorry…" he mumbled. He blinked and she came back into focus.

The annoyance slid from her face as she got a look at his face.

"You all right, Tiresias?"

Clark blinked. An "Aye" was on the tip of his tongue, but it wouldn't come out. The intolerance for bullshit was battling it out with the stoicism. Both traits were heavily encouraged in the North. Right now, Clark was too tired to referee that fight.

So he mumbled incoherently and turned to leave. A firm but gentle hand grasped his elbow.

"Can you say you're all right, Tiresias?" asked Mal, her brown eyes boring into his. At least he thought they were brown. The world was beginning to swirl.

"Tiresias?"

The world righted and Clark opened his eyes to see Mal still there. Otis had joined her from his perch outside. A large torso appeared behind them. He raised his eyes to see Hodor, staring down at him in concern.

"Hodor?" the halfgiant asked.

Hodor's face began to swim. Clark turned back to Mal again.

"I'm sor…I'm sorry, Mal," he began. His legs were beginning to tremble, his head starting to nod. "I can't…my…I'm…"

He blinked…and Mal's face was replaced with dirt and people's shoes. There was a weight on him…

What is happening to me?

He blinked again. He was gliding through hallways of stone. It was so peaceful. He heard more than felt his teeth chattering. There was someone above him as he was floating above…they held the…held the…

Damn…what are these things called again…oh right, doors..

Another blink brought him to a more familiar place. He wasn't too far gone not to remember his bed. Though he didn't remember his boots being removed…or his trousers…

A glow in the room grew…the fireplace…a young woman crouched before the growing light. He tried to voice his immunity to cold, but a groan escaped his mouth. A heavy hand patted his shoulder.

"There there, man." He couldn't place the voice, but it was very friendly.

Someone closed the curtains, pronouncing the glow even more. A weight fell upon him…another blanket…he opened his mouth…

"My…my work…Maester Luwin…"

"Someone is going to speak to Maester Luwin now." Mal's face focused and Clark saw the fire reflected in her brown eyes. "He'll come in and look at you soon. Can you stay awake a little longer?"

Clark tried to answer in the affirmative, but he couldn't. Mal saw the answer in his eyes though. Her face was beginning to blur again.

There was a light pressure on his arm.

"Sleep, Tiresias, sleep." The pressure left. The last words heard were left on the surface as Clark dove deeper and deeper…

He was traveling down a country road cloaked in fog. A strange feeling was coursing through him. It made his breath hitch, his fingers twitch…

Was it…was it cold? It'd been so long since he'd felt a chill…

The fog was so thick he could barely see the dirt by his feet. It also quieted all that surrounded him. Sounds came sparingly...a rustle of tall grass…a sigh of wind…the call of a bird…

He continued to walk; the thuds of his boots dulled to echoes. The air before cleared slightly…a mane of red hair hovered above and beyond…

Gallows stood on the side of the road. The woman was there, hanging limp, heavy. As she has and always will. The rope creaked with her slight turning. Tiresias looked to her face. Had he ever really taken a good look at her face?

Her face was gone. Her skull was all that was left. The rest of her body, white and tinged with deathly blue, was there. But the yellowed skull wore the beautiful red hair…

The urge to walk vanished. There was no country road beyond this. He knew that. The fog was comforting. It felt like a place to forget. Would he even see the hanging woman after enough time had passed?

Another bird's call echoed through the fog, from beyond the gallows. He turned to see something slight and dark pierce the thick mist. A large raven landed on the hanging woman, causing the corpse to swing back and forth. It pecked at her flesh…

Tiresias didn't protest this. It was good meat…good meat…where had he heard that before?

The raven turned its gaze to the man below. It dropped from the hanging woman and settled on the road. It clawed the dirt and stared up at Tiresias. He met the raven's eyes. All three of them.

He looked back up. The hanging woman had vanished. The fog was all they had now. He looked back to the three-eyed raven, who continued to stare. It had turned quite still…

A glow began to grow from behind. He turned and saw the light from a distant fire. He stepped forward, the white fog giving way to an increasing darkness surrounding the flames…

The raven called farewell to him. He turned to see it fly away into the fog. That glow became more and more pronounced. The darkness deeper and deeper…

Clark blinked. He was laying in his bed, his body dulled from sleep, weak from illness. The fire crackled gently in his room. The chills from his chest were gone.

He really had to pee.

It took a few minutes but he summoned the strength to right himself and dress somewhat decently for a trek to the latrines.

The wall was a solid support as he walked. From his room through the hallway. He took several breaks. Wiped his forehead.

Why the hell am I sweating?

He caught his breath and continued to totter along. He finally reached the latrines and relieved himself, bracing against the back wall, his arm shivering.

Was that your introduction, Three-Eyed Raven? I suppose you know of me now.

Howland Reed's warning about dreams echoed in his mind. It could have been a coincidence. A ripple from the show that just resurfaced in his head. Was that it? Or was the old man in the tree really reaching to see him?

Is that why I'm so damn sick? I'm no greenseer. Can I even see you in dreams? Perhaps only the kind of delirious dreams that belong to the bedridden?

He finished and went to the door. There was no sink to wash his hands and it was raining out. He caught rain in his hands to rub together. It felt only more unclean in a way.

Did you do this, old man? Did you…

"Tiresias? Is that you?"

He turned from the door, his hands still dripping from the rain. A figure came forward from the shadows. She was in her night shift, wrapped in a shawl, her hard shoes echoing through the hall.

Clark nodded, his head heavy coming up. He leaned against the door frame. The woman came through the darkness. He blinked and saw her brown eyes staring incredulously at him.

"Mal…" he slurred as a greeting.

Mal strode forward and shut the door immediately. The platter of rainfall was dulled to a pleasant drone. Clark smiled at the sound.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Mal demanded, her voice keeping to a harsh whisper.

He pointed to the entrance to the latrines. Mal followed his finger.

"Is there no chamberpot in your room?"

Clark gritted his teeth. "I don't like…I don't like people handling my piss…or my…my shit."

That sentence winded him. The wall was becoming more and more uncomfortable. Mal's hands reached out and steadied him. She looked to the latrines and then back to him. She seemed to be swallowing reprimands.

"Tiresias," she said. "I need you to stand here. Can you do that for a bit? Not fall or sit down?"

Clark gave a nod. He was positioned well, as long as his feet didn't slip…

"Wait here," Mal muttered, before she disappeared into the latrines herself.

The rain kept him company. It seemed to steadily increase in ferocity, cleansing Winterfell. No birdcalls would reach him until the weather cleared. No hawks, no robins, no eagles, no crows…

The thought saddened him slightly.

Mal's hands were on him again, taking his arms. He blinked and he was standing free of the wall. Mal was at his side, her arm around his waist and holding his arm over her shoulder. They were walking slowly back.

He focused all remaining mental energy to keep his feet moving and from bringing Mal down to the floor. She was strong though. His tall frame didn't seem to bother her.

Had she done this before?

The question remained stuck in his mind. He didn't have to energy to voice it and he quickly lost the desire to do so.

His foot caught the floor and he began to stumble. Mal caught him and steadied him.

"'S all right," she muttered. "Just down the corridor here and you can lay in bed. Come on."

The prospect of disappearing into sleep again was very appealing. He hoisted his head and leaned gently into Mal, who half-carried him the rest of the way.

Luckily, he left the door unlocked. He actually didn't know where his key was. It must have been removed when he first collapsed…

Wait…who undressed me?

Mal dropped Clark onto the bed and crouched to remove his boots. He closed his eyes and opened them. He was now righted in bed, under the covers. Mal was bending over the hearth, adding a log and rebuilding the fire. He felt like he was sinking…

He blinked again and Mal stood, holding the chamberpot by the handle.

"Now listen to me, Tiresias and listen well. When you have to relieve yourself, you use this. All right? I don't care if you're embarrassed. Until you can walk to the privy and back, without leaning on someone to do it, you piss in this. Do you understand?"

Has she ever cursed before? Tiresias couldn't tell…neither could Clark. Neither could remember.

"Tiresias" she said. "Can you say you understand?"

He must have given a nod after that. She placed the chamberpot down below again and sighed, her frustration replaced with exasperation.

His breath was steadying again. Sleep was calling to him. He felt a hand on his forehead. It was very kind. The glow from the flames was darkening.

"Now stay in bed. And sleep," said a soothing voice above him.

Who was in his room again?

"Stay out of the rain. Sleep."

Clark slept for two days. He came to periodically during those two days, to relieve himself in the chamberpot, to drink some water and broth, but he always fell right back asleep.

It seemed to pass quickly for him. Maester Luwin was there in the morning and evening to check him. A scullery maid brought more wood for the fire. It was boiling in the room. Hals got him out of the clothes he wore for his midnight excursion. Mal fed him broth. She allowed him to try and operate the spoon on his own, but his motor skills were not cooperating. With his arms like lead, he was propped up and fed.

He was too tired to feel infantilized by the whole thing. Often he fell asleep during the meals and exams. Truthfully, in the haze, after over a year of living in Westeros with the weight of what was to come, he found himself glad at times to be coddled. To be taken of. To simply sleep. Though he did worry a little that he would not be able to trek north with Lord Stark's entourage in two weeks' time.

That worry abated on the third day. He was still exhausted, had very little energy but there was something different about it. He felt significantly less groggy. He knew, or at least strongly suspected, that one more night of sleep would bring him relatively back to normal. His illness would vanish as mysteriously as it appeared.

When Mal came with his breakfast, he was able to feed himself.

"Mal?" he called afterwards. She paused, at the door with his empty bowl. "Thank you. For everything."

She took the gratitude in, nodding her head. "You're welcome." She opened the door. "You still need to stay in bed until Maester Luwin says you're all right."

"Yes, ma'am," murmured Clark, but she was already gone.

Maester Luwin did come by for a quick checkup. He had only a few minutes before the children began their lesson.

"Well, it's certainly an improvement over the last few days," he said as he gently pulled down Clark's eyelid for an examination. "You're lucid now at any rate. How do you feel?"

Clark raised his hand and dropped it nonchalantly. It was the best shrug he could muster. "Better. Still tired though."

Luwin stood up from the bed. "Well, best cure for that is more sleep. I'll come again in the evening after dinner. In the meantime, stay in bed and rest."

"Thank you, Maester."

Chains rattled as Maester Luwin turned back around. "One more thing; Lord Stark has inquired about your condition and wishes to see you as soon as you're able."

Looking around him and back to Luwin, Clark laughed. "Well, if he doesn't mind me not standing, I can see him today."

Luwin nodded. "I'll inform him. Rest easy, Tiresias."

The maester exited and Clark returned to his sprawl on the bed. He was done sweating profusely but the room still felt quite warm to him. He was unable to tell whether it was pleasant or not.

The rest of the day passed without incident. Mal returned soon with a bit more food since he'd drank all his broth at breakfast. After much pleading, she opened the window for a few moments. He was sure his room was quite pungent after many days with no air circulation and the wind after the early spring rain was very welcome.

He slept sparingly through the rest of the morning and the afternoon. After lunch, there was a knock on his door.

"Hello?" he called and the door opened. Robb, Jon, Sansa and Arya came into the room. Arya was holding onto Jon's hand and Sansa was clutching a bunch of blue winter roses in front of her. She nodded in greeting.

"Good afternoon, Tiresias. Maester Luwin told us in lessons today that you were feeling much better. These are for you."

She placed the roses on the bedside table, next to the candle.

A lump arose in Clark's throat, which he swallowed. He reached for the roses. Sansa extracted one and handed it to him. He cupped the flower in his hand delicately, gazing at it.

"I've only heard of winter roses before," he murmured. "I've never seen one. Certainly have never held one." He turned to the children. "Thank you, Sansa. Thank you every one of you. This was a lovely gift."

He felt the weight of the mattress shift and saw that Arya had climbed on top of the bed, settling by his feet. The chubby toddler phrase was gone and she was skinny Arya Stark in miniature.

"You were sick," she proclaimed, in the way children do, somehow both a strong statement and a question all at once.

Clark nodded. "I was. I was so sick that I had to go to sleep and snore and drink broth for a few days."

"You do feel better though, do you?" asked Jon quietly. Clark met his concerned eyes easily.

"I do, Jon. I really do. I know I look haggard, but I'm fine. This day should be my last day of bed rest before I return to my duties. I'm looking forward to the training yard. How have your lessons been with Ser Rodrik?"

The rest of the conversation was brief, but spirited. After Robb got past his surprise learning about Tiresias the librarian sparring with his brother, they both detailed Ser Rodrik's lessons enthusiastically.

"And what of Maester Luwin?" asked Clark. "Have you all learned something in the past few days from him as well?"

Robb shrugged. "A little."

"A little? I see." He leaned forward slightly. "Do you speak Valyrian yet?"

The eyes from the children widened. Clark looked to all of them, one by one. He was sure he spoke correctly, albeit slowly. He couldn't be sure. Learning a language is nigh impossible without a practice partner.

"Will no one speak? Maester Luwin teaches Valyrian, true?"

Jon cleared his throat. "Yes. I speak little. We speak little." He gestured to Sansa and Robb Stark, who were definitely understanding the words, but still looked bewildered.

Clark turned to Arya, who looked quite perturbed at being left out.

"I'm sorry, Arya. Jon and I were speaking Valyrian."

The girl's brow furrowed. "Dragon?"

Clark nodded. "That's right. Dragons come from Valyria. That's very good, Arya. Soon, you'll come to the library and learn the language of dragons. Would you like that?"

Arya nodded, her eyes bright.

The rest of the conversation was held in the Common Tongue, peppered by Valyrian and the Old Tongue, both of which Jon translated for Arya. The little girl repeated each foreign word as well as she possibly could. Clark tried not to turn the visit into a language review, but the children seemed to enjoy the game. Most of them at least. Robb was very polite and played along, but he could feel the future Lord of Winterfell growing antsy.

By the time the children said goodbye and left, Clark was exhausted once again. He fell back asleep for a few hours and woke up to the scullery maid closing his curtains and placing fresh logs in the fire.

"Girl," he said. She started a bit, but rose.

"Yes?" Her eyes were very big.

He took a deep breath. "Have you been in here every day that I've been ill? Keeping the fire going?"

The girl nodded. "I have, yes."

"What's your name?...I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't know it."

Surprised (at what, Clark didn't really know), the girl recovered and spoke.

"My name is Hilde."

"Thank you, Hilde. It's been very warm in here."

Hilde blinked, but nodded. She picked up her tote bag just someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," Clark called.

Lord Stark opened the door, his eyes going from Clark to Hilde with her tote bag. She gave a short curtsey.

"M'Lord," she said, before exiting quickly. Lord Stark closed the door after her and crossed to the bed.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

Clark sighed. "Better. Maester Luwin will be back after supper to see me, but I suspect he'll clear me for duty. I should be back in the library tomorrow."

Ned nodded. "Good." The chair for Clark's desk had been moved to the bedside for Mal, Luwin and others. Ned sat, his eyes leveling with Clark's.

"Do you still wish to trek north to the Wall with me?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," said Clark immediately.

"Will you be healthy enough?"

"As long as we don't leave tonight, I'll be all right," said Clark. "We leave in a fortnight, correct?"

Ned leaned forward, the chair creaking.

"Do you still plan to go beyond the Wall? Should Lord Commander Mormont refuse to move against Craster?"

Clark resisted the urge to make light of Ned's caution. He doubted there were any enemy spies in Winterfell, but then again that's the sloppy attitude that got a lot of people killed in the show. And so he lowered his voice even more.

"Yes, I do," he muttered. There were moments though when he wondered whether or not killing Craster was the right thing to do. Not even regarding the endless rapes of his wives and daughters, there was the bargain he managed to strike with the White Walkers. If Craster was killed and the White Walkers couldn't get his sons, would they start raiding more free folk villages to take the baby boys?

Ultimately however, that was a scenario that Clark was prepared to risk. In the next decade before Craster's death, he would provide the Night King with several new White Walkers, enabling a swifter end to the free folk. That must not happen.

Not that he said any of this out loud to Lord Stark. Ned simply looked at him after he answered in the affirmative. Clark held his gaze. He was weak at the moment, but still strong enough not to back down. Finally Ned reached into his pocket.

"I've something to show you," he said, pulling out an object covered in cloth. He handed it gingerly to Clark. It was rather light. "Careful, there's a little sharpness to it."

Clark unfurled the cloth gently, revealing a small slab of obsidian, shiny in some places, dull in others, with hints of purple and blue interspersed in the darkness. He turned to Lord Stark, unable to keep a small smile from his face.

"Lord Stannis?"

Ned nodded. "That's a small bit of our first shipment from Dragonstone. Lord Stannis was…questioning, but Sorcha and I talked two months ago and she agreed to corroborate a story about jewelry for furs. I won't say that Lord Stannis entirely believes it, but he has agreed to a light mining operation in that beach cavern. He only asked me to cover the labor and shipping cost, plus a light fee for his services. For now."

Clark turned the dragonglass over in his hand. The firelight shone beautifully through it.

"Well, dragonglass is worthless to the rest of the kingdoms," he muttered, his eyes still drawn to the obsidian. "On one hand, that means you get it cheap. On the other hand, you look like a fool for purchasing it."

"I agree," said Lord Stark, his brow furrowing. "It'll have to be bought and imported in small steady shipments. Not enough to grab attention, but enough to be prepared for when they come."

"Will that work for Lord Stannis?"

Ned leaned back in his chair. "I don't see why not. This isn't particularly difficult to mine and the cave has an abundance of it, according to Maester Cressen's report. The first shipment is a day's work for two experienced miners. A shipment every two months. For nine years…I don't know if it'll be enough. But we can always ask for more as the years pass."

Clark wrapped the dragonglass back in the cloth and handed it back to Lord Stark.

"How much dragonglass in the first shipment?"

Ned nodded to the chest in the corner. "Twenty boxes. Each about the size of that chest there."

"May I ask a favor of you, Lord Stark?"

"Certainly."

"I'd like to make use of the dragonglass, if I may. Would you order Mikken…would you instruct Mikken to forge a dagger out of dragonglass for me?"

The fire crackled. Ned fell into one of his contemplative silences. It'd been a while since one of those.

"Do you expect to encounter one of them beyond the Wall already? At this point?"

Clark shook his head, handing back the obsidian. "I don't know, but I'd rather have it and not need it."

Ned pocketed the dragonglass. "I'm sure Mikken could have it done quickly. The vast majority of the ironworks required for the new structure are completed. He has his apprentices as well."

"I also need spearheads," said Clark. "And additional daggers. All from dragonglass. Enough for me to carry up north. Will that be possible before we leave?"

He knew from Lord Stark's face, that he understood exactly what was to be done with these additional weapons. Ned nodded.

"It should be. Mikken will be joining me at my table tonight. I'll speak to him. It's only what you can carry, yes?"

"I think so." Clark chuckled. "I don't think I can smuggle a horse past the Wall."

"No, no, I think not." Ned's eyes shone a little brighter. It was close to a laugh.

"Thank you, Lord Stark," said Clark. At that moment, his stomach rumbled very loudly. "Excuse me."

"Not at all," said Ned. He stood. "I think Mal is on her way with supper shortly. I'll be going. It's good to see you feeling better."

He turned to exit.

"Lord Stark?" Clark said, halting the Lord of Winterfell at the door. "Have you told anyone that I'm coming along yet?"

Ned shook his head. "Not as of yet, no."

"I have a couple of messages from Castle Black, corresponding with Maester Aemon…well, actually, it's Maester Luwin's back and forth, I just copy it, but I do have some excuse to go. In a week, may I approach you in public and ask formally to travel with you? In order to retrieve some tomes Maester Luwin set aside for us?"

"Has Maester Aemon set aside any tomes for us?"

Clark shrugged. "There are some possibilities…Look, I'm not going to rob an old man blind…well, he's already…never mind. He has mentioned a few tomes we might be interested in. It's a good excuse. Additionally, I could say I also want to see the Wall."

He truly did. He knew that there was going to be a colossal difference between seeing it on television and seeing it in real life.

Lord Stark gave a final nod. "All right, a sennight from tonight, I'll bring you up to have dinner with the family. I'll discuss my planned departure and inquire into your plans while I'm away. You can ask me then."

"With all the tiny witnesses."

Ned smiled. "Right. Sleep well, Tiresias." He exited silently.

Clark laid back on his pillow, feeling an energy course through his veins that had been absent the past week. Elation was a bad word for it. He was glad to see the Wall and began this part of the plan. He didn't relish killing Craster though. He hoped his wives and daughters wouldn't hate him too badly. Abusers tend to create dependency in their victims.

Gilly's a child now, I think. How old is she?

Mal came soon with his dinner, the first piece of solid meat he had in several days. He ate slowly and carefully, thinking. He had to get back to the library, to research all he could concerning beyond the Wall. The hunt proved that he could be a wolf, sniff his way to food, to safety and probably all the way to Craster if he concentrated.

He paused in the middle of lifting his venison to his mouth at the thought.

Sniff my way to Craster...

Lowering his fork, he felt his breath quicken…

Enhanced senses…agility…immunity to the cold…sent to protect House Stark…

Clark started laughing, softly at first, but it grew. Thankfully he was alone in the room. He set aside his tray and placed his head in his hands. The laughter died down and he was left shaking his head, grinning like a maniac…

The strengths of a direwolf…well, I don't know how well they climb, but I like it. Got the body hair for it anyway…well done, you bastard. I know you said not to wonder who you are. But thank you and well done. Jesus Christ…

Eventually he calmed enough to pull his tray back and finish his meal, the expected comedown from this elated discovery coming later than he thought. But still it came…

It would do him good to not overly rely on whatever he was given by his mysterious benefactor. He had to prepare. He needed more information and the library was key. At Winterfell and Castle Black. Beyond the Wall was not his home. It belonged to the Free Folk, the giants, the Children, to White Walkers and their wights. He couldn't waltz through it.

After all, he hadn't been a wolf for that long.