Chapter 25

A dense fog had clouded the road west for the past three days. It slowed the wagon significantly as Tiresias didn't wish for Marlee to step into a ditch and break a leg. What should have been a fortnight journey to the Kingsroad would now be near a month at this pace. Tiresias could only hope that it would clear eventually. He had just arrived at the end of the Lonely Hills, which seemed to hold the fog in an unnatural way.

He found himself halfway wishing for this cover a month ago when he met the bastard. A shiver always seemed to follow that thought.

It had been a sennight since he had left the Dreadfort. He didn't sleep with one eye open; his stomach didn't jump with every approaching rider. However, on the occasions when he reached back for a snack from his supplies or a sip of water from his skin, he risked a glance at the road behind him.

His glances yielded no fruit. He caught no followers and saw nothing that would give a normal traveler pause. But Tiresias was not a normal traveler and this paranoia led them to stay at inns more so than he would have otherwise. The door to his rooms provided, at least, some resistance and he figured that if he did have some unwanted guests, they would have a harder time sneaking up on him than if he was outdoors.

Marlee rolled into an inn early that evening. Normally he would have kept going. There was still a little light left. However he knew the next inn was farther along, past the White Knife, and he wouldn't reach it until the following night.

Once Marlee was stabled and the wagon stored, he entered to settle his bill. As fond as he was growing of Marlee, the damn donkey was draining his purse quicker than he had intended. He counted his remaining coins with a worry he hadn't felt since he first woke in the Riverlands.

It's your fault, being paranoid. It's no charge to camp out in the woods.

Aye, then you could be a frugal corpse. You have enough. Now calm down.

Tiresias exhaled. It was true. He had saved his coin carefully for the past couple of years. Maybe Renei did him a favor, telling him not to return to her. He was wealthier for it.

He chuckled lightly. That was the first time in months he had thought on Renei. He overheard a couple of guards bemoaning that she had left Wintertown. Disappeared off the face of the earth. Maybe she was Clare again. A young widow in her family's cottage…

He wished her well, but didn't regret her absence. Honestly he didn't dwell on her much. For the past two months, when he wasn't busy hunting the boy with pale blue eyes, he was thinking of the young woman with bright brown ones…

Tiresias shook his head. He still didn't know what to say to her. Two months of hiding hadn't changed that. Whether or not he could actually have a relationship with all that was coming. Besides, spending his alone time preparing to kill a young boy didn't make romantic musings any easier.

And certainly not killing an innocent girl either. Do you deserve anyone after that?

He sighed. He certainly didn't know and he couldn't think clearly in this place. Maybe when he made it onto the Kingsroad, heading south. When he wasn't looking over his shoulder constantly. When he was out of Bolton's reach…

The early evening passed surprisingly quickly and based on the smells from downstairs, it was time for whatever passed for dinner in these poor small Northern inns.

It wasn't too bad. Sure, the meat was cooked to where it had no flavor, but then again, that also meant no bad flavor. It was just substance. After which, Tiresias felt that he had to sit and let his stomach work through it. He carried his mug of ale to the fireplace, where no one sat. Most of the inhabitants were just coming down for their own tasteless dinners.

He bent down and started the fire up. Then he sat, nursing his drink, staring…

The dining room behind him seemed to mute, with laughter and clinks of mugs coming in spurts. All else seemed to fade away as Tiresias pondered the flames.

Knowing that there was some truth to the Lord of the Light, he often regarded the fires he watched with apprehension. Who knows what the Lord of Light intended for him? If anything at all. He thought it once frivolously, but what if Melisandre or any other fire priest did show up at Winterfell, guided there? Perhaps he was being guided himself. On one of his travels, should he survive this one, he could wander into the waiting trap of a red priest. End up being burned as a sacrifice…

If the Three-Eyed Raven knows I'm here, you certainly do too…And if that's the case, I'm not sure if I want to know what you have planned for me…I'm not stupid enough to believe I can outrun the will of a god.

Then again…plenty of other gods in this world, right? Do you even have power here in the North? As of now?

One of the logs cracked and fell off the grate. Tiresias gave a soft bitter laugh.

Suppose that answers that.

He lifted his mug to drink. Swallowing, he felt his ears perk up. A soft pair of footsteps were making their way toward the fireplace. No problem there. It was open to anyone, but these soft footsteps…they sounded like an animal stalking…

They stopped behind him, off to his right.

"See anything fascinating?"

Tiresias turned to the voice and had to stop his eyes from widening. Keep his face neutral. The man who spoke…if he was who Tiresias thought he was…

It very well could be. The man's face was less lined, but the jet-black hair was the same, the voice was becoming more familiar and the eyes…

Tiresias swallowed. "Anything fascinating?"

The man with the quiet step walked toward him, gesturing to the fire.

"Yeh been staring into those flames for a solid time now."

He took the seat next to Tiresias. His eyes were on the fire, but Tiresias knew he was still in the man's periphery.

"Just tired," he said, sighing.

"Aye," said the stranger, nodding. "I know what yeh mean. Been traveling meself for two months. Feels nice to sit by a fire not of me own making."

"Hmm," said Tiresias, not knowing what else to say. He fixed his gaze on the fire again and felt the man's eyes turn towards him. Their focuses switched; he saw the man take out a knife. Normally, he would have reacted, but the man's movements were far too casual. Sure enough, he heard the knife go through a fruit. An apple, if he had to guess.

"Care for a slice?" He turned to see the man offering a piece. "Can't eat the whole thing on me own."

Tiresias shook his head. "No, thank you."

The man shrugged and popped the slice into his mouth. He continued to eat the apple for a bit while Tiresias sat quietly. The man's energy…it felt like he was waiting for him to talk. Tiresias was very disinclined to offer any information about himself…but at the same time, it would do to see if his instincts were correct.

"Two months of travel sounds difficult. Do you have a family waiting?"

The man took a draught from his wineskin. "Aye," he said. "Two boys. Last I heard they were driving their mother mad."

Focusing to keep his face straight, Tiresias took his own draught. The man was a good liar.

"It's a bastardin' thing, my work. Keeps me away from me family." He sighed low before shrugging. "But what are yeh gonna do? Everyone's gotta eat."

"They do," agreed Tiresias. "What do you do?"

"Game warden. For House Hornwood. Have to spend most of me nights in the fucking cold. Away from the warm wife. A warm, nagging, hardly ever satisfied wife. But still…" He turned to Tiresias and raised his right hand.

"Better than this bony fucker."

He laughed softly and Tiresias forced himself to crack a smile and nod.

"And you, friend," the man said, dropping his hand to grab his wineskin. "What's your trade?"

What was there any point in lying? If this man was who Tiresias thought he was…no.

"I'm the librarian at Winterfell."

The man raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. "That's a right rich post there."

"Indeed?" asked Tiresias, deciding for a bit of banter. "Someone should have told me. Could always use more coin."

"Couldn't we all," said Locke. It wasn't a question. "Wait a minute…is your name Tiresias then?"

Something in his mind told him that wasn't a question either. He turned to the man, staring.

"Have we met?"

The man shook his head. "Nah. Just heard a whisper or two about a foreigner carting all over the North for the past couple of years. Bringing books back to Winterfell."

"Didn't realize I was well-known."

Raising his wineskin in a salute, the man smiled. "Not much happens in the North, friend. We all take we can for gossip. Is there no gossip in Winterfell?"

"None that the kitchen maids care to share."

The man laughed. "Bunch of tight-lipped cunts, aye?"

The opportunity was now. Tiresias forced himself to smile for a few seconds before speaking.

"You have the advantage on me, stranger. You have my name, but I don't have yours."

The man stuck out a hand. "Name's Locke."

Well, shit.

Tiresias took his hand and shook it. "Locke, well-met."

If Tiresias had trouble before picturing the man who took Jaime Lannister's hand, he certainly didn't have it now. Locke didn't seem much younger than he appeared in the show. He hid it well, but the eyes told Tiresias that Locke has already committed heinous, sadistic acts.

The friendliness he recognized as well. The same deposition he put on for Jon Snow at Castle Black. To see it directed at him made his skin tingle. He was the target now.

And if he's here now, out in the open, chatting me up…then he must have some friends here.

Cursing his choice for a sitting spot, face away from the room, straight into the hearth, he saw that the fire was struggling.

Thanking his good luck, he crouched down before the hearth.

"So," said Locke, behind him. "Where yeh headed now?"

"Back to Winterfell," responded Tiresias. He propped a thin log into the fire, his fingers brushing the flames. "I just came from the Dreadfort. Lord Bolton was generous enough to donate a few materials."

He stood and turned, perhaps a little more quickly than he would have otherwise, throwing his arms up into a stretch, his eyes searching…

Two men about twenty feet away quickly eyed their cards again. Tiresias had the feeling there were more. But by the time his eyes swept the room, all eyes were on their own business.

So Locke was definitely not alone. He turned to see Bolton's best hunter looking up at him.

"Have you ever been to the Dreadfort, Locke?"

Locke shook his head. "Nah. Seen the Lord Bolton a couple of times when he's come to Castle Hornwood, but me work's never taken me to that place."

Tiresias picked up his mug. He continued to stand.

"I'm grateful to Lord Bolton, of course, for his hospitality and his books," he said. "But I won't lie, I was happy to leave. I couldn't sleep thinking of all the ones that had been flayed in that place."

Locke shrugged. "Flaying's long been outlawed in the North."

"Thank the gods," said Tiresias. "I know. It's not fair to the current Lord Bolton, but I couldn't help it. It's as if they were all below me, screaming. In severe pain. Telling me to leave and never come back."

He gave it a second before turning to Locke. The man's mask had slipped. His friendly act briefly off as he stared at Tiresias.

Probably wondering what the fuck he's gotten himself into.

Tiresias drained his mug and set it back on the table.

"Well, Locke, I hope you enjoy the fire."

"Off to bed already?" The amiable act was back.

"Aye. Need to start early. Heading west to the Kingsroad. Is that your way as well?"

Locke shook his head. "East for me."

Not an exact lie. He just has to chain a lone traveler, before riding back for the Dreadfort.

Tiresias nodded and held out his hand.

"Well, have a safe journey, friend. Best to your wife and kids."

Locke shook his hand.

"Thank yeh, Tiresias. Safe journey for yeh as well."

Shaking his hand a couple more times, he set off. Crossing the tavern to the stairs, he felt the two men with cards staring at him. Plus a few other eyes that he couldn't place. By the time he reached the stairs and took a casual look back, all eyes were ignoring him.

He entered his room and shut the door with his left hand, taking care not to touch anything with his right. Crossing to his bed and sitting, he brought his right hand up to his nose and sniffed deeply.

Was it the same scent that he detected in his guest room at the Dreadfort? On his rucksack when he returned from dinner? He couldn't be sure. Not even his nose was that good. After a couple more sniffs just to rule it out, he dropped his hand and sat still, thinking.

Bolton had men here in the inn. He had entrusted Locke, his best hunter, to find the librarian he had hosted a sennight earlier. Did they find Ramsay? Buried in the earth? Was Roose just acting on suspicion? He wasn't being approached for a formal arrest and questioning. No, he was being hunted. Locke and his men were circling in the tall grass.

How many though? That was the question. There were the two playing cards. But there had to be more. He felt the eyes following him. More men than any lord would think sufficient to kill a single man. With no known martial prowess.

And with that, he realized one thing: they meant to bring him back alive to the Dreadfort. Roose must have more questions for him and this time, he wouldn't be wined and dined. No guest right. He would end up on the rack in a deep dungeon and that would be the end. And then it would go beyond that. He couldn't be sure that he wouldn't betray Ned Stark under the flaying knife. In fact, he was certain he would.

He remained seated in the dark for, at least, an hour, going through these thoughts as they came. Finally he stood and fetched the chair. He propped it against the door, hooking it under the doorknob. Just as in the Dreadfort, whenever he had spent time at an inn in the past sennight, he had barred his door. Tonight was no exception. However, this time he took an extra beat to test the chair's firmness.

Taking another precaution from the Dreadfort, he settled on top of the covers, ready to go at the first sign of a disturbance. His eyes focused on the doorknob. He watched it for several minutes, yawning silently multiple times. He didn't know how he could feel drowsy, knowing that there was an unspecified number of men in this inn, ready and willing to bring him before Lord Bolton.

A part of him hoped that he was too tired to possibly hear what he thought he heard. A quiet step was coming softly down the hall. His eyes went from the doorknob to the gap beneath the door, where a slight light was peeping through the dark. He watched it intently as the quiet steps came closer and closer.

Locke stopped in front of his door, his shadow visible, albeit barely. Tiresias couldn't move from his bed without risking a noise. He just kept still, staring and waiting for the next moment.

Which turned out to be thankfully anticlimactic. Locke turned and walked away from the door, his shadow disappearing, his step ghostlike.

If ever he, a man of House Stark, were to be kidnapped or murdered by a bannerman of House Stark, it would be out and away from witnesses. Not in a crowded inn.

There was a voice in his head that screamed for him to stay awake and vigilant. However, another voice countered that.

You'll need a little rest if you're going to survive tomorrow, man. Take a light snooze.

So the next time he shut his eyes, he didn't bother opening them. As sleep came, he allowed himself a small wish.

Just let me wake in the morning. And let me find my bed again tomorrow evening.

He failed to open his door the next morning without it creaking. Cursing the age of this inn, Tiresias peered out into the hallway. The early morning saw no risers this day. Not so far.

He crept out and moved silently. Walking down the stairs, across the dining area and out the front. The morning air was crisp. He breathed it in, trying to calm himself as he ventured to the stables, to the side where they kept the carts, out of sight from the inn. He wasn't carrying his bag or anything. He wasn't planning to flee just yet.

But there was a feeling in the back of his mind. He was vulnerable when he slept last night. They may not have gotten him in his bed, but there were other ways to sabotage a target…

He came to his wagon. From a glance, it looked completely fine. He stared longer and he could still find nothing wrong with it. So he went around and inspected each wheel. Each one seemed sturdy. The spokes were as he left them.

That left the undercarriage. He crouched carefully and peered underneath the front first. Then he moved to the back axle and his breath hitched.

Even in the dim morning light, he could see the sabotage. Near the back-right wheel, the axle was sawn halfway through. He ran his finger along the cut. His eyes fell to the ground and saw a few remaining specks of sawdust. Somebody was here last night.

He got up and went back to the front of the stable, staring at the inn. Two grey-bearded farmers came out. He doubted they were part of the hunting party. He still had time.

Entering the stables, he whisper-yelled. "Is anyone here?"

A lanky, tall boy with blonde curls and terrible acne popped out from a stall, a brush in his hand.

"Aye," he said. "You here for a horse?"

Tiresias shook his head. "Not yet." He gestured for the boy to follow him. "Could you come quickly please? I need your help."

He turned quickly, hearing the boy's protests falter before he followed him. Exiting the stables, he eyed the inn as he turned the corner for the wagons. The grey-bearded men were gone. He hoped no one was watching from a window…

Coming to his wagon, he turned to see the boy giving a huge yawn. He fought the urge to hurry him. He needed the lad on his good side.

The lad came to a stop before him. "Aye?" he asked, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"What's your name?" asked Tiresias.

"Vin."

"All right, Vin." He went to the back and crouched down. "I want you to be careful and look under this wagon at the back axle. Look where I'm pointing."

He felt the bewilderment emanating from Vin, but the boy did crouch down and look. Tiresias didn't have to ask if he saw anything. He heard the boy sharply inhale. He straightened up and Vin stood as well.

All annoyance was gone from the boy's eyes.

"Someone fucked ye wagon."

"Aye."

Vin gave a look over his shoulder and then back to Tiresias.

"Yeh start a fight last night?"

That got a light laugh out of Tiresias. "Nah, just shared a fire."

Vin didn't return the laughter. "Well, someone in that place hates yeh, mate. Yeh saw the axle. Good thing yeh found it 'fore yeh set off."

Tiresias crouched down to inspect the axle again.

"What would have happened, had I not seen this?"

He heard Vin pat the wheel. "Wheel's fine." He crouched down near the front. "And ye front axle's pitch. But the ground's likely to fuck yeh all the way to the White Knife."

Vin stood, scratching his head. "I figure…an hour strong before the fuckin' thing snaps. Yeh wouldn't have lasted longer than two."

That certainly solved the problem of witnesses. The last sighting of Tiresias would be at this inn as he drove off into the early morn. Locke and his men could afford to sleep in. They would catch him easily on the road, sitting on his broken vehicle.

Maybe he would approach as a friend, toy with me a little longer before they struck.

He turned to Vin.

"I need to leave this morning."

The boy stared. "Ye ears fucked as well? I told yeh. Two hours on the road, yeh be stuck with a broken wagon. Hurt animal too, probably."

"Can you fix this?"

Vin shook his head. "Not until tomorrow. I gotta get the other horses ready to leave. Other people in the inn too. Besides, carpenter's two hours away. I'll give yeh the directions if you wanna walk there now."

He turned away, but Tiresias grabbed his arm. Vin jerked away.

"Watch it!"

Tiresias raised his arms. "I'm sorry. I just…" His mind raced. "I just need this wagon to go for longer than two hours. Is there anything, and I mean anything, that you can do to make that happen?"

Vin still looked miffed at being grabbed, but Tiresias could see him thinking.

"I have coin," he added.

That put a little optimism in the boy's eyes. Tiresias waited…

Finally, Vin spoke. "I 'ave some nails and wood in the back. Fix it to the axle. Brace it. Take some pressure off."

"How much more time would that give me?"

The boy shook his head. "Don't know. Dumb idea. Yeh should stay. Get it fixed proper."

"I can't do that."

There was a silence only filled with cicadas and birdsong. Vin looked at him and Tiresias saw a little of the perception that Roose had in spades.

"Someone in that inn really wants yeh, aye?" he asked quietly.

Tiresias didn't answer, but Vin didn't seem to need him to. He sighed.

"Yeh'd have more than the two hours. Upwards of three. Maybe four." He shook his head. "But that's all."

"Fine," said Tiresias. He pulled out a silver stag and gave it to Vin. The boy looked at him, wide-eyed. "How long?"

Vin pocketed the stag, thinking. "If yeh help hold the wood for the first nail, much quicker."

In five minutes, they were crouched down below the wagon. Vin hammered quickly and true enough. After the first nail, the brace could be hold by one. He could continue on his own.

"If yeh have any weight yeh can spare, I'd toss it," he grunted as Tiresias stood. "This bastardin' wagon's gonna need a light arse for its final morn'."

Tiresias nodded as Vin worked to secure the brace. He hoped the hammering wasn't too noticeable from the inn. As he walked back, Vin's work did become dimmer and he sighed in relief. Now he hoped for another stroke of luck…

Which he received as he entered the tavern. The only two occupants were the grey-bearded farmers. He sat down and ordered breakfast from a yawning tavern wench, plus enough dried beef for three days. He had the feeling as he glanced around the tavern; that he would not have comfortable accommodations for the next few nights…

As he ate, others came downstairs, including the two men who played cards last night. They seemed to have learned their lesson and he sensed no furtive glances in his direction. They weren't joined by any others. In fact, most of the guests sat alone or in twos. He couldn't tell how many of these men would ride after him in a couple of hours.

Resisting the urge to glance furtively himself, he ate quickly and made for his room.

Slowly, Tiresias, slowly. Walk calm. Walk natural. You don't suspect a thing. Just leave expecting nothing but another day of riding…

As he climbed the stairs, he noticed that Locke wasn't down yet. He hoped that was a good sign. He entered his room, not bothering to check if anyone had searched it. He gathered the sack of tomes and placed the dried beef in his rucksack. He also grabbed a blanket from the bed, hiding it away.

Coming back down, he handed his key to the innkeeper and exited, wondering how many eyes were on him. He crossed to the stables, telling himself not to look back. What if Locke was watching from a window?

He entered the stables and saw Vin. The boy nodded and went to fetch Marlee. Tiresias exited, rounding the corner of the stables to the wagon. He knelt and check the brace. It was clunky and he hated the idea of riding with it. But he had no choice.

He placed the sack with the tomes by the side of the stables. Gently he then tossed the rucksack into the wagon and threw the blanket over the wagon. It would cover the back end, hiding the brace from view. Should anyone care to watch him depart.

He then gripped the yoke and pulled, dragging the wagon around and to the front of the stable where Vin was waiting with Marlee.

As they reined the mule, Tiresias passed a silver stag to Vin.

"That's for the axle."

He passed another one. Vin's eyes widened.

"That's for keeping this quiet and for another favor." He lowered his voice to a mutter. "I have three tomes in a sack along the stables where this wagon was. Please keep them until another from Winterfell comes this way, however long that may be. Give the tomes to them. If you could."

Vin nodded and offered him the reins. Tiresias hesitated.

"It'll hold," Vin promised. "Just be gentle."

Tiresias smiled grimly. "Aye." He climbed onto the wagon. Not too gingerly. As far as anyone saw, he suspected nothing. He nodded to Vin.

"Thank you," he said. And resisting one last temptation to look back, he clicked his tongue and the wagon rolled forward.

He couldn't remember the last time he wanted a watch so badly. Guessing when an hour had gone by wasn't easy under the best circumstances and certainly not when one was listening for the distant hooves of an approaching hunting party.

Counting his breath, he took another look behind him. The road was still empty. The mist had burned up and it was clear for the first time in four days. If they approached on the main road, he'd see them coming. Bad news was they'd see him as well.

When he finally felt safe estimating that an hour had gone by, or a little over, he passed a mill. He could glimpse no farther settlement on the road. No scent of smoke from a fire, a forge or the turned earth of a plowed field. He was alone with no one to witness his capture.

Though he did recognize a couple of landmarks, it had been months since he had walked this road. Locke and his men certainly knew this area a lot better than he did. His axle was sawed just enough to break after an approximate distance. The next few miles or so…that's probably where they intended to strike.

With no other option, he began to count. He probably should have started right when he left the inn, but it was better than nothing. He was certain at least an hour and a half had passed. After another half-hour or so he estimated, he surveyed his first option for cutting and running.

Something didn't feel right. He could probably make good time but the south of this road was lightly forested and it felt like he would be easily tracked. So he continued, eating small amounts of the dried beef to build his strength.

At an estimated three hours out from the inn, he glanced back. No sign of Locke and his men, but he was beginning to push it. He swore he heard the brace beginning to strain and he knew he'd be lucky to get another hour out of this wagon. But this area didn't seem any good to him either. Still, he may have no choice. He had to get off soon to create enough distance.

However, just when he was amping himself up to abandon Marlee, he heard the distant rush of water and his heart leapt.

The White Knife.

He could walk faster than Marlee could pull a wagon and he underestimated how long his journey would be with the donkey. However, he had finally arrived at White Knife.

Well, not exactly. Ten...maybe twenty minutes away. That's when he would jump ship…or wagon. He only hoped the vehicle would last not just until then, but even longer after, drawing the hunting party farther west. By this point, if they left the inn at a reasonable hour, they soon would reach the place when they had intended to ambush him. When they got there and realized that the wagon wasn't broken on the road…then they would really start to haul ass.

Tiresias clicked his tongue. "Come on, Marlee. A little hustle on the end game."

Marlee did pick it up a little and Tiresias counted twelve minutes before they rounded the bend and came to the bridge over the White Knife. As they crossed, Tiresias looked back. Still no sign…

Once the wagon had cleared, Tiresias grabbed his rucksack and bow. He jumped, landing lightly on his feet.

And Marlee came to a stop.

Shit.

"Marlee, come on, buddy. Keep going," said Tiresias. He grabbed the reins and pulled Marlee forward, leading him for ten feet and then releasing. The donkey stopped after that.

Tiresias focused on his breathing. He must remain calm. He mustn't succumb to panic. There had to be a way…

He went to the forest and tore off a branch. Coming back to the road, he went to the back of the donkey, off to the side.

I'm sorry, Marlee.

He struck the animal. Lightly at first, but then harder in succession. Marlee brayed and began to move. Tiresias walked along for another hundred feet, alternating between pausing and striking him, not leaving the donkey any clue when to stop.

Finally, Tiresias stopped and stood off quietly. Marlee continued to tread onward with the wagon. He eyed the brace as the axle spun. It was still there, but it would break and soon.

I hope it doesn't hurt you when it does, Marlee.

Well-aware that there was more animal cruelty on this venture than he was comfortable with, he turned and moved quietly back, the sound of the rolling wagon wheels fading into the distance.

Once he was back at the river, he threw the branch into the current and did one last check. No riders from the east. Determined not to push his luck any further, he checked that the ground wasn't too muddy and stepped south into the forest. Keeping the White Knife on his left, the road quickly disappeared behind him, though he could still see the bridge.

He began to jog. Not hard enough to lose his breath, but he needed to create as much distance as possible between him and whoever the hell was coming from the Dreadfort.

Just lose sight of that bridge…just lose sight of that bridge...

Glancing between the trees, it was indeed getting smaller and smaller. Finally, he followed the river around a bend. And when he looked back, the bridge was completely gone. Nobody crossing it would even glimpse him now if they tried.

He stopped, panting slightly.

Just a breath. Need to pace. Still need to run for much longer.

The waterskin was still full, but he sipped gingerly. Always sip and let the water absorb into your body. Never chug, no matter how refreshing it feels. Who taught him that? Scouts? The hunters at Winterfell?

He shook his head. His break was done and he had to keep moving. He had no idea how long Marlee would lead that false wagon trail and when Locke and his men would catch up.

Swallowing his spit, he started again, careful not to disrupt the brush.

The day ended with Tiresias bracing himself against a tree. He cursed in between his pants. For all the thoughts of pacing himself, he allowed fear to overtake him. He ran for too long and his body was beginning to rebel. If he hadn't trained continuously for five years, he would have collapsed hours ago.

He spat as he looked back.

"Fuck," he muttered. He was careful in the beginning about the brush, not leaving a trail for anyone to follow. That wasn't the case for the last mile or so. Desperation seeped into his brain as he ran farther and longer than he had intended.

Gotta create distance…just ten more minutes…quartermile more…come on, Clark…move!

Tiresias laughed in spite of himself. He hadn't thought of that name for a long time. He must really be lizard-brained. Assessing his surroundings, he leaned against a tree and slunk down. It wasn't the best place for a rest, but at this point, he had no choice. He should have stopped and climbed that one tree an hour ago. But the sun had just set and he could still see. He could still put more distance in between…

Now he couldn't. He took some dried beef and chewed it slowly, staring back north in the dark. His ears were plugged. Blood was still pumping through him. His heart racing. He ate slowly and drank the water. Still sipping it. Not chugging it.

He didn't even get up to go pee. Unbuttoning his pants, he turned to the side and relieved himself, settling back in when he was done.

That was a dumb mistake, asshole. Animals will come. And you're too tired to fight them off. Could have just staggered to the river…

Tiresias shut his eyes. The rush of the White Knife was singing him to sleep…

Aye, well, that's the jist of it. Need to sleep. Just for a few hours. It's dark now. Been dark for a while.

He opened to glimpse the forest. His vision was blurred and weary.

Just a few hours. And then I can keep going…

Tiresias opened his eyes, with enough recovered energy to know that more than a few hours had passed. The forest was awash in the grey light of the predawn. Glimpsing his hands and other digits, he sighed in relief.

No animal came to chew anything off.

Still, he cursed himself as he got up. He had been in one place for too long and he had to move. Even farther south before turning west onto Winterfell.

But as he hitched his rucksack up and picked up his waterskin, he remembered that he drained it last night. It wouldn't do for the day.

Just a few more moments.

He trudged down to the White Knife, balancing on the rocks and dipping his waterskin in. Even with his tolerance to the cold, he knew this water would freeze a man shortly. He just yawned, allowing the coolness to soothe him, listening to the early morning sounds of birdsong, dogs, cicadas…

He froze, before jerking his head up. Corking the skin, he moved swiftly back to the trees and listened. Shutting down all but north of him, where he had left the road and the moving wagon…

It wasn't his imagination. He had heard barks at the riverside and they were coming closer and closer, now at a half mile away. He should have guessed that they'd bring their dogs. And they definitely latched onto something. He could hear their frenzy from here. All the distance he created yesterday was for naught.

He took a draught from the skin. It wouldn't do to start running on a dried windpipe…

Packing the skin away and slinging the bow over his shoulder, he turned and ran. He had no concern anymore for the brush. They knew he was this way. All that mattered now was speed.

But dogs were faster. He had been running for ten minutes when he heard howls behind him. He put them at his makeshift campsite. Where he had peed. They must have caught that.

"Fuck," he spat, in between breaths.

Why not just leave them a fucking note next time?

He picked up the pace, kicking his heels up, thankful that his boots were well-worn and supple. The tiniest pink was in the sky, kissing the White Knife.

Despite his rest, he felt his lungs begin to burn. He couldn't keep this up much longer.

Just keep going…just go…GO!

He jumped a log and stumbled, stopping at a tree, trying to catch his breath…

No…no, you can't…not this way...

Forcing himself to swallow his spit, he pushed and continued to sprint.

Sooner or later, they'll be near enough. That's when they'll release their dogs. And if you think those dogs are fast now…

"Fuck," he spat again. Curses were his only comfort.

He kept his ears north as he moved, trying to listen for it. Trying to hear the moment when the party realized they were near enough. He looked back more than once.

And as he focused forward again, his eyes caught the White Knife, continuing to flow…

He caught himself staring at it, before forcing his gaze forward. His lungs were hurting now.

Maybe…just maybe…

But he had to wait for the moment. For the release. He had to time it just right…

He slowed just a little, allowing himself to catch some of his breath. He would need his strength. Especially for this. And if he could force the hands of those motherfuckers…

"Come on," he muttered in between gasps. "Release the hounds…haven't…got all day…"

Finally he heard it. He imagined more than heard a shout of "Get him!" He was well out of eyesight and earshot for those running on two legs. But for those running on four, he was near enough. The howls renewed with a fury.

They would be on him in a minute. He started to sprint again. Maybe two minutes.

He kept glancing at the White Knife, trying to find an opening. He had to time this right…

Barks behind him put them at a few hundred feet. He counted one…two…three distinct barks.

Three hounds…only three…okay.

And the White Knife opened before him. A section of the riverside devoid of trees and brush. He ran to it and saw rapids in the distance. The sight gave him a second wind as he crashed into the water. He tore off the bow and quiver, abandoning them to the water before diving in. It wasn't worth accidentally strangling himself.

Sound came in and out as he freestyled to the center of the river, feeling his speed increase with the current. On the riverbank, he heard the barks, the rocks scurrying as the paws hit them and the crash of a creature jumping into the water.

Making sure no rocks laid before him, he turned to see the second dog enter the White Knife. The third one was just reaching the riverbank. But the first one was already swimming toward him, doggy-paddling like mad.

He ran his fingers across his dagger, still in his sheath before turning forward again. The rapids were coming up.

Feeling his body speed up with the torrent, he stopped swimming and brought his legs forward to push against any debris or rock. The river swept him along, faster and faster. As he looked back, he saw the dog nearing. It hadn't stopped swimming with the rapids. But it was panting hard.

Double-checking to make sure he was in the clear for the next section of the river, he turned his body around, his feet toward the approaching dog. Bending his legs, he watched as it continued to swim, its teeth baring amidst the frenzied breaths.

Come on, you son of a bitch…little closer, come on!

With one last glance forward to double check for oncoming rocks, he brought his eyes back to see that the dog was within a few feet...

Three…two…ONE!

He kicked, his boot coming out of the water to hit the dog straight on the nose. It yelped and continued to swim forward, blindly. He kicked it again and again. And it kept swimming.

"Come on," he gasped. "Fuck off! Fuck off!"

It didn't though and on his fourth kick, though it connected as well, the dog bit down and latched onto his foot. Tiresias felt the pressure mount, but the boot held well and the dog was weakened, holding down the bite on pure instinct. He continued to kick it with his left foot. He hit the dog's eye. It yelped but it still didn't release.

He couldn't help but notice the second dog nearing them.

Looking forward, he saw the rapids coming to a stop. There was a giant boulder in the river though before the end. It was coming up fast.

Steering as well as he could in the rapids with a delirious animal on his foot, he swung his foot to the side. In the path of the oncoming boulder. The pressure in his foot was growing stronger and stronger. It was thirty feet away…twenty…ten…

He gave one final kick just before the hit. He struck the throat and the top of the dog's head collided with the boulder. Red splurged into the river and the pressure on his foot disappeared.

Tiresias didn't waste energy on a cheer. He barely kicked the dead animal away before the second dog was on him. He tried to kick it as he did the first, but this one was too near. His kick landed on its underbelly and while the dog huffed, it still swam forward, its jaw opening.

Sending his fist forward, he punched the dog in the nose, pulling his fingers back before the dog snapped back. There was no getting away from this.

But that goes for you too, pooch.

He reached forward quickly and grabbed the dog's throat with both hands. It writhed and thrashed in the water, but Tiresias wasn't letting go. He couldn't.

The rapids were gone and the gentle current was still flowing quickly, carrying the struggling duo along.

Risking enough for a glance upstream, he saw the third dog. It was still in the rapids. He couldn't fight two at once…

Deciding the time was nigh for a stupid, risky move, he brought the dog close and got on top. He was lean, but still strong enough to force the dog underwater. It helped that the Bolton kennelmaster loved them enough to give them collars…

He reached under and pulled the collar down, pinning the dog's torso with his legs. It continued to writhe violently and Tiresias held on for dear life.

Just a minute…need to hold for one minute…

But it was a long minute. The dog was as desperate to live as he was and several times, it came near to freedom, to finding his hands with its frantic snapping jaws. All the while, the third dog was coming nearer. He didn't dare look back to confirm, but he heard it.

Finally though, the jerks lessened and ceased. He kept the dog under though, not trusting the first few seconds of stillness. Though he did chance a look back. The third dog was a hundred feet away.

After confirming that the second dog was as dead as it was ever going to be, he released his hold, pushing the still body away quickly, just in case it came to life. It didn't though and continued to float, veering gently to the side.

Tiresias only floated long enough to confirm that before continuing to swim. He didn't need to see the final canine. He heard it clear enough. Paddling closer. Undeterred by its dead companions.

In the water, they were equally quick and although Tiresias was breathing harder and harder as they moved through the water, he heard the dog's panting deepen considerably more. It was more work for the dog to keep up.

That's right…tucker out, keep paddling…come and get me…

He had no idea how long he swam with the dog following. Couldn't have been more than a few minutes. The sun was beginning to break over the hills. His limbs were tiring quickly. He had to end this. Had to find a good spot.

On his right side, he saw it. Solid ground that rose slowly out of the river into a bank. He veered toward it, hearing the hound follow him.

He stood up in the water and his boots hit the riverbed. The river was flowing steadily though, and he struggled to walk forward.

Still, better than the dog. With its smaller legs, it'll have to swim longer before it could reach the riverbed and run forward.

Staggering out of the water, he ignored all instincts to collapse. He couldn't. Not yet. He stumbled to good ground and pivoted. He took off his rucksack and threw it to the side. The dog was still swimming toward him. Fifty feet off.

He unbuttoned his jacket, his fingers fumbling on the first one before finding a rhythm. Fear was threatening to undermine him.

It's just one. You've narrowed them down to one. Come on.

The dog was thirty feet away, its eyes still bright.

He removed his jacket, pulling it inside out around his left arm. Wrapping it around the forearm, he pulled it tightly, giving the loose sleeve to his left hand to grip. It wasn't his leather boot, but he didn't have time to hope it would be enough.

The dog's feet found the riverbed and it began to run, fighting the water. Fifteen feet.

For a split second, Tiresias thought that his dagger came loose and was lost in the White Knife. But his belt has just shifted. He unsheathed it and crossed his arms in front, his bundled left arm shielding the blade he gripped in his right…

With a fresh fury, the hound exploded from the water. Still panting, it bolted to the target.

Tiresias exhaled.

Just you and me. Nothing more.

The dog jumped; its jaw open. Tiresias threw his left arm forward and the jaws met it, biting down with immense strength. Even with his arm padded, he felt the pressure shoot through his whole arm. He yelled in pain and brought his dagger to the hound's throat.

He missed though, hitting the chest but it was enough. The pressure on his arm disappeared and the dog fell to the riverbank, yelping, the dagger still in its side. He kicked the head and the yelps ceased. Withdrawing the dagger, he went for the throat and stabbed again. The forest fell silent.

The voice in his head screamed for him to move but he couldn't. He breathed, allowing his heart to slow. He remained kneeling for a moment. He could spare a moment...

Swallowing his spit, he took his eyes from the dead dog and gingerly removed his jacket. The skin wasn't punctured. No bones broken. At worst, he might have a big bruise. Not a bad price.

He put the jacket back on and sighed, his sigh coming out in a shudder. He extracted the knife, wiping the blade on the dog's fur, before fetching his rucksack. Upon taking a draught from his waterskin, he found himself chugging it. He couldn't help it.

Three dogs…no…no, five dogs. Maybe one mule. And Rosie…

Glancing down at the dog, he swallowed a bit of bile that threatened to come up.

"Sorry about the kick," he muttered. "That wasn't necessary."

Raising his eyes from the dog to the north, he wondered how far behind the men were. When would they discover the dead dogs? Where would they go next?

He didn't have much time. Once they found the dead hounds, they'll renew the hunt.

They'll go down the riverbank, see if they can find where I got out. And then they'll pursue me into the forest. Probably see me trying to run straight to Winterfell for Lord Stark's protection. Try and cut me off before then. The Kingsroad. Any road west of here.

He would be better off not going to Winterfell straight away. Let the hunt cool off. Let them go home. Come to the castle another way.

You could still be there before the half-year is done.

He laughed weakly in between his panting. The fact that he even considered that amused him.

So he needed somewhere to cool off for a while. Somewhere busy where he couldn't be tracked.

His eyes went to the White Knife, its stream flowing steady.

A normal man would freeze in that river. Locke knows that. But he doesn't know about me.

He could follow this river however long it floated him. Taking him all the way to White Harbor if he wanted…

That was meant to be a laugh, but Tiresias quickly warmed to the idea. He walked to the edge of the forest until he reached grass. Then he backtracked, stepping in the same bootprints, until he reached the river where he came stumbling out. Afterwards, he removed his boots and tied them to his rucksack. He didn't need to risk Trench foot. As he strode barefoot back into the water and let the currents sweep him along, he turned the bemused thought into his new destination.

Goodbye, Locke. I hope never to see you again. Although…if you do manage to track me down all the way to White Harbor…I guess you deserve to flay me.

With one look back at the dog's carcass, he began to freestyle downstream.

To say that he swam all the way down the White Knife to White Harbor would be an exaggeration. He did swim a significant chunk of it however. After a sennight, when he was certain that no hunting party was following him down the southeast waterway, he simply walked the aligning trail. Trudging along, allowing his clothes and boots to finally dry.

He lit his first campfire in months. Though he didn't need the heat for himself, it brought him more joy than he thought. He hung his clothes and submitted himself to bug bites that night in exchange for dry clothing. He may have been itching for two days afterward, but at least his clothes weren't damp. He trapped and hunted freely and walked with only a healthy amount of caution, which, after months of his preoccupation with young Ramsay, came as a relief.

After six nights on the trail, he came upon the city of White Harbor in the early afternoon. The lightness in his chest only increased. The last time he came here, he was undercover with Renei. Now he could freely explore the largest port city in the North. Unbothered by any hunters.

The smell of the sea hit him before he ever entered the city and only intensified from there. He welcomed it though. It smelled like the Pacific Northwest. He tried to still the lightness growing in his chest. It was a good way to mark oneself an easy target for a pickpocket. Strolling into a city. Smiling like a fool.

He sat down at the first tavern he found and ordered an early dinner. By now, he was calm enough to curb his desire to scarf through the food and order seconds. He took his time and ate slowly. When he was finally satiated, he inquired for an open room.

It was still light when he settled into his bed. His window didn't face the sea. He didn't care on both accounts. To sleep safely was enough and a patch of dirt on the side of the White Knife wasn't restful enough to recover from what he had experienced. He shut his eyes before sunset and even didn't prop his chair against the door.

He didn't wake until well after the following dawn. However, he did rouse himself in time for a late breakfast. After which, he walked down to the fish market between the outer harbor and the Seal Gate. He stared out at the Seal Rock. The waves were loud, but they still carried the cries of the seals to his ears.

Not quite hungry for lunch, he wandered to the Fishfoot Yard, where the traders made their first stop before exiting the city. Last time he was here with Renei, they encountered some merchants preparing to head north. Winterfell was often along their way.

After some inquiry, he found an old man and his daughter, who were actually somewhat familiar to him. They had a large well-worn wagon that bore salt every month to Winterfell. They were loading barrels when Tiresias approached.

"Hello…Randar, aye?"

The old man turned to him. "I know ye?"

"My name is Tiresias. I'm the librarian at Winterfell. I've seen you deliver salt to the castle before."

Randar looked at him before turning to his daughter. "Aymee! Yeh seen this man 'fore?"

Aymee barely glanced before shaking her head. "Nah, pa."

The old man turned back to Tiresias. "I ain't seen you either."

Tiresias sighed. "Well, I do work at Winterfell and I would like your help."

"No room on the wagon for yeh."

"Is there room enough for a letter?"

"Eh?"

"A letter. Could you carry a letter?"

Finally, with a copper star and the promise of another from Vanyon Poole upon delivery of the letter, Randar agreed to carry a letter when he and his daughter left the city this evening.

Hoping that Vanyon Poole would forgive him, Tiresias ventured to the town scribe and purchased a single scrap of parchment. He scratched a letter out to Lord Stark, hoping that the Warden didn't think him dead after so long without a word. He wondered if he should send something to Mal as well.

That depends. Have you decided what you wanted yet?

Realizing he didn't have an answer to that question yet, he decided against it. He still planned to be back before half a year. He'll come to it by then.

Sealing the letter, he brought it back to Randar with the copper star and left feeling even lighter. He went back to the Fishfoot Yard and purchased some mussels in a savory broth. He sat down at a table in the square, watching the crowds go by. A tan fat man in a blood-orange tunic approached his table shortly.

"Pardon me, my good man. May I share your table?" he asked politely.

Seeing that all of the other tables were quite full, Tiresias nodded, his mouth full of mussel. The merchant thanked him and sat down, with his own early dinner. Tiresias glanced or rather smelled a large lamprey pie and fried eels.

Missing his mother's salmon more than ever, he focused back on his mussels.

"My name is Barrock," said the polite stranger, nodding to him. "What is your name, if I may ask?"

"Tiresias," he responded, after swallowing.

"Tiresias…Tiresias…" Barrock ran the name over. "A strange name…"

"I'm from Essos."

"I see. Well then, welcome to Westeros. What brought you over to the dreary North? Are you a sailor?"

Tiresias shook his head. "Librarian at Winterfell."

Delighted surprise filled the man's face as he laughed. "Pardon me, Tiresias. Here I was, welcoming you to Westeros and you already work for the Warden of the North!"

He leaned forward, conspiracy in his eyes. "You won't speak ill of Barrock and his poor choice of words for the North to your master, yes? It was only in jest."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He couldn't decide if he liked Barrock or not. Whether he appreciated the company. Or whether he just wanted to be alone with the sea breeze in the harbor.

"Thank you, friend." Barrock laughed and broke the crust on his lamprey pie. He savored the first bite as he seemed to savor everything. Tiresias couldn't help but smile.

"Are you always this cheerful?"

"But of course!" The merchant dabbed his mouth with his sleeve. "I don't sell my goods with a dour face. I sell them because I am happy to sell them and I must always be happy to sell them."

Tiresias lifted his bowl to drink the broth. "Sounds tiring."

"At first, yes. But then, like any muscle, you grow used to it and you become stronger and stronger. Soon you can approach anything with cheer. Including the table of a stranger to make a new friend!"

Tiresias listened to the man's words carefully. It seemed that Barrock was genuine. And based on his clothing, the man was at least moderately successful.

Barrock chewed his lamprey, swallowing before he spoke. Thankfully.

"But I will admit; I'm happier than I am most days, Tiresias."

His eyes begged Tiresias to ask why and he relented.

"Why are you so happy, Barrock?"

"I'm happy because I will be very rich in a month and a half!"

"And what happens in a month and a half?"

Barrock chuckled. "A tourney, my friend. The grandest in a decade. In King's Landing. All for a blonde prince and his twelfth nameday."

If Tiresias had been holding his bowl, he would have dropped it. Thankfully he had already set the broth down and he simply froze, staring at Barrock. Something rung in the back of his mind. Something about never betting against one's brother. About a prize. A transfer of a dagger…

Petyr was long dead. But perhaps…perhaps there was still a way for things to fall correctly…

Barrock had noticed his new friend's slipped composure.

"Are you faring well, Tiresias?"

He brought himself back. "Aye, thank you. This tourney…this tourney is for Joffrey's…Prince Joffrey's twelfth nameday?"

"That's right."

"In a month and a half? When? Precisely?"

He swallowed, trying to calm himself as the merchant thought. He needed to be casual.

"Six sennights. In two days from now." Barrock took another bite of his pie. "Then, I will sell more oil than I've sold in six months. That's my trade. I sell oil. Jugs of it. Oil for your steels. Oil for your skin. For men and for women. Oil for old private parts that need…forgive me, we're eating."

Barrock laughed, full of mirth. Tiresias sat quietly. All sounds of the harbor disappeared as he considered it. Finally he looked back at Barrock.

"When do you leave for King's Landing? Do you have a ship?"

He shook his head. "Not here. I rented a cabin on a ship that leaves tonight. I have to be in King's Landing when my merchandise comes ashore."

"What ship?"

For the first time, Barrock's cheer turned a little suspicious as he looked at Tiresias. "The Red Turtle," he said. "Why?"

"Is there any room on that ship?"

The smile came back to Barrock. "Are you planning to sail with us?"

Tiresias shrugged. "Mayhaps. You can find materials for a library in the South that you can't come to easily in the North. Never seen a tourney before either. Northerners don't seem to care for them much."

"You're right about that," remarked Barrock. "If you stay above the Neck, you'll never see one." He clasped his hands, thinking. "It didn't seem like they were crowded. And I know the captain. I've sailed with him before. He always enjoys extra coin from passengers."

Tiresias nodded. "Sounds like a reasonable man." He stood. "Where is the ship? What time does it leave?"

"The second pier. You can't miss it. It has its namesake painted on the bow. We set sail at sunset."

"All right." He turned to leave.

"Are you not going to finish your broth, Tiresias?"

He didn't bother slowing down, let alone turning around to call back. "Too much to do."

First thing he did was fetch his rucksack from the inn and pay his bill. He exited the inn and ran, dodging every civilian he could and yelling back apologies to those he couldn't. He reached the Fishfoot Yard and eyed the sun carefully. He still had an hour. Maybe.

He found Randar and Aymee preparing to set out. Just as the man was about to move forward, he called out.

"Randar! Randar, stop! Please!"

The old man turned to see him and actually deigned, though he figured it was more out of surprise than a common courtesy.

"What's yer yelling for?" he asked, bewildered.

Tiresias gasped for breath. "The letter…I…I need to make an amendment."

A blank stare followed. "Eh?"

"An amendment. I…I need to add something."

In the end, the old man relented and pulled out the letter. Tiresias opened it and set to work, making a harsh scribble against the wagon surface.

As he sealed it again, the entire message read as such:

To Lord Stark,

Lord Bolton was as gracious a host as you said. Unfortunately, upon my return from the Dreadfort, I was set upon by bandits. I am unharmed but unfortunately was forced to abandon the materials that Lord Bolton was generous enough to donate. Please don't bother Lord Bolton for them at this time. His son, Ramsay, has been missing. He need not concern himself with my negligence.

As the road was no longer safe for me, I decided to diverge to White Harbor. I'll be back within a month. Best wishes to you and your family.

Sincerely,

Tiresias

Postscript - Disregard my intention to return within a month. I'll be heading to King's Landing to pursue some opportunities we discussed, concerning the library. As most transport won't be leaving the city until the end of Prince Joffrey's nameday tourney, I expect I'll be there until then. I'll come up the Kingsroad at that time.

Post-postscript - Will you please get word to Mal, Mistress Bane's assistant, that I still plan to honor my word? Thank you kindly.

Randar pocketed the amended letter scowling, but Tiresias was already striding away. Dread gathered in his stomach as he walked down the second pier and approached the Red Turtle. He had spent years planning his last mission, poring over maps and stories of the Dreadfort and the surrounding area to hunt and kill Ramsay. He had only a fortnight sail to plan his time in King's Landing. A city he knew little of. To figure out what he even wanted there.

This spontaneity was not something he embraced, although he knew deep down this was a golden opportunity. That knowledge didn't ease his nerves as he brought his passage to the capitol.