Chapter 30

Tiresias set his quill down, staring at the letter. It took him a few attempts to actually read the whole thing through. When reading, he would blink and realize that he hadn't absorbed the previous paragraph at all.

However, he finally got through it. He folded and sealed the parchment. The smell of wax lingered in the air as he gazed down upon it. This was the most detailed letter he'd ever written to Lord Stark. When going beyond the Wall, when stalking the Lonely Hills…he'd always entertained some notion that he would come back. That his chances of returning to Winterfell, to the library, to the Starks, to a pair of brown eyes remained high. Now, however…

There was a sick taste in his throat. Bile threatened to come up. He got up from the desk and went over to the fire, determined to be calm. He braced himself against the stone hearth. Staring into the flames, he breathed in on a count, held it and released…again…and again…

Finally his stomach settled. He returned to the desk and retrieved the letter, securing it inside his rucksack, where the other package for Lord Stark lay.

Afterwards, he took in his surroundings for what felt like the hundredth time. Lord Lydden, once he had found his voice again, gave him this room to ready his affairs. Judging by the light, he had only a couple hours left.

Tiresias crossed his right leg over his left and reached for his toes, easily placing his palms squarely on the floor. He remained in that position for a solid minute before coming back up, feeling the blood descend from his skull.

He saw Oberyn's eyes being pushed in, his own skull erupting from the pressure, brains and blood spilling onto the ground…

That image only seemed to still Tiresias further. He couldn't bring the will to shake it off.

He wasn't sure how long he stood still. When he was finally able to, he turned back to the desk, before remembering that he had already finished the letter. He cursed himself lightly. All the time he spent in this room, he was able to get through by continuing to work. Writing when he couldn't stretch. Stretching and preparing when he couldn't write…

At this rate, I'll be the most limber corpse they've ever seen…

A large part of him was so heavy. It made him want to simply sit still, gazing at the wall numbly until it was time to die.

"No," he stated lowly. "No. No, not today. Not today."

Those words…did they mean anything to him? He was no water-dancer from Braavos, no Faceless Man, not even a warrior. He was just a barely competent assassin, a librarian…

He couldn't claim to be anything else. Regardless of his abilities. Not to himself. Not in front of Henri or Jory or Lord Lydden…

He had never been such a focus in a room before. Certainly not intending to be when he followed the innkeeper into the hall. He wanted to say that he was just as surprised that he volunteered as anyone else.

But that obviously was not the case. Determined to keep his eyes on Lord Lydden, he still sensed the collective shock of all who witnessed it. How it varied even. The deepening daze of the innkeeper. The bald man's befuddlement, shared by the other men who rode with Ser Gregor. The absolute confusion of the highborn who had forgotten their breakfasts in lieu of what was happening in front of them.

Tiresias maintained eye contact with Lord Lydden, waiting for him to respond. He swallowed as discretely as he could before he was called to speak. Finally the Lord, after blinking several times, cleared his throat.

"You… you'll fight in Henri's place?"

"Aye," said Tiresias, nodding. "Aye, it's what I said."

He spoke softly. If he spoke any louder, he was sure that his voice would crack. Nevertheless the hall was quiet enough that his low voice carried to the walls.

Suppressing an urge to clench his hands into fists, he waited for the Lord to speak. He could hear the beginnings of laughter from Ser Gregor's table. Though he was sure the Mountain himself was quite silent. He could feel his black eyes on his frame.

"Your name, Ser?" asked Lord Lydden.

Tiresias took a breath. "Tiresias. However, I'm afraid I need to correct you, Lord Lydden. I'm no Ser. I'm not a knight."

He prayed that would be the end of it. That Lord Lydden would clap his hands and move this charade along. That he could suffer the consequences of his own brash stupidity, without any more questions.

However, he must have prayed to the wrong god.

"Where do you hail from, Tiresias?" the Lord of Deep Den continued.

"Essos."

Lord Lydden's brows furrowed. "Are you a sellsword?"

"No, Lord Lydden. I'm a librarian."

That punctured the crowd's silence; murmuring from the lords and ladies, growing laughter from the Mountain's men, a few groans from sympathetic onlookers. He could feel Jory's bulging eyes on the back of his head. A small part of him was impressed that the Winterfell guard could keep his silence for this.

Lord Lydden sat back down, looking a little crest-fallen.

"It's usually soldiers or sellswords who volunteer to fight, Essosi," he said. "And usually, no foreigners. This is…well...most unusual."

Tiresias braced himself. "I suppose. Although you were willing to have an innkeeper fight just now. I may be a stranger in these lands, however I can't help but feel that this trial-by-combat is playing rather loose with the rules."

If he expected Lord Lydden to be outraged or embarrassed by this statement, he found himself slightly impressed when the Lord merely looked sad. This was not the state of affairs he expected to find himself in when he entered his hall for breakfast.

Beginning to feel the energy drain from his body, Tiresias voiced his request.

"If I may, my Lord, and should Ser Gregor be so kind, I would like some time to settle my affairs and prepare for the trial. I'm sorry to say that I didn't wake up this morning ready to duel."

"Not ready to die either, aye?" called the bald man. The Mountain's men began to laugh, unconcerned for the disgusted looks thrown their way, even by Lord Lydden, who was glaring at the bald man.

Before the lord could respond though, Tiresias heard himself begin to chuckle. It wasn't completely his choice. Another five minutes and he might go crazy with fear. He had to move quickly.

He turned to the bald man, still laughing lightly. The bald man paused in his own laughter, looking bewildered.

"I don't think any man wakes up ready to die, Polliver," he said calmly. Polliver's smile dropped entirely as he stared at Tiresias.

However, the librarian ignored him and turned back to Lord Lydden. "But he should be able to prepare for it, should he not? Lord Lydden, may I have a few hours? Even a criminal sentenced to death is allowed time to reflect."

Lord Lydden considered his words, pursing his lips. Finally he stood.

"The trial-by-combat will take place at sundown. In the inner hall." He turned to Ser Gregor. "I'm sure Ser Gregor would be willing to enjoy our hospitality a while longer."

The crowd turned for the Mountain's response. Tiresias steeled himself and for the first time, looked to Ser Gregor. The man's eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. He tried to make his eyes go soft, to betray no emotion. Did it work? Or did Clegane see the growing fear in his eyes? It was probably a common enough sight.

Maybe that's what convinced Clegane to accept. The Mountain's expression didn't change. He merely turned to Lord Lydden, who managed to meet his eyes as well.

"Sundown," he rumbled quietly before continuing to eat.

Tiresias exhaled as discretely as he could. His apparent doom was decided and scheduled.

His hand went automatically to his side and found nothing.

"Son of a bitch," he murmured, completely forgetting about the dagger. He longed to have it with him in this room.

You'll get it back. He told himself. Gendry knows how to sharpen the hell of a blade.

It was the other request that gave the young blacksmith pause. It was a moment of inspired instruction, given in haste. He just hoped he hadn't made another huge mistake.

After Lord Lydden declared that the trial will go forward at sundown, Tiresias walked back to a stupefied Jory. The Winterfell guard opened his mouth but no words came out. Tiresias took the opening and instructed him to fetch Gendry from outside. Still stunned and just scrambling for anything to do, Jory turned and exited the hall.

Tiresias was alone. With only murmurings for company. If he raised his eyes, perhaps he would also see looks of pity, sympathy, maybe a few admirers. His hands were beginning to shake and he cursed himself, before employing the breathing exercise. It wouldn't do for any onlookers to see him break down.

Not like Henri. The innkeeper was escorted, or rather carried, past him. He felt the man's eyes go to him, but he couldn't meet them.

Something clicked in his mind. Something almost reptilian. He had work to do.

Turning back to the high table, he approached Lord Lydden with a few more requests, muttering quietly. The Lord of Deep Den ascertained his request for a space to prepare and for his two companions to freely visit him. The Lord's eyebrows nearly shot into his hairline when Tiresias also requested to borrow a weapon from the armory, but to this, he also agreed. He wondered whether he was the first man to challenge Ser Gregor with no weapon.

The only bit of luck this whole morning was that Lord Lydden was no sadist. He would gain no joy watching an unarmed stranger being sliced in two by the Mountain.

Despite his throat becoming increasingly tight, Tiresias thanked Lord Lydden and he was escorted out of the hall. He thought he could feel the Mountain's eyes as he exited. However as he looked back, Ser Gregor's focus had returned to his meal.

Back in his room, Tiresias glanced at the corner when the pole-staff and pads were piled. Along with the weapon he selected, he also borrowed some leathers. True, Lord Lydden didn't explicitly say he could use them, but none of his escorts said anything as he took them. The pole-staff wasn't what he selected for the duel but he needed something to warm-up with while Gendry made the modification.

It had been a while since he had sent Gendry upon his task. The lad entered this room with wide eyes. Evidently Jory found his tongue outside the keep and informed him of what transpired. However Tiresias couldn't waste time. The day would be gone before he knew it.

He gave the lad his requests, and while Gendry voiced his concerns, he still took the weapons and promised to have both back well before sundown.

Abundant time had passed since Jory left as well. He left to monitor Gendry's progress hours ago and Tiresias had requested privacy while he composed his letter. He needed silence, the kind of silence where one could hear his own heart beating loudly.

Jory wasn't comfortable with that kind of silence. Not today. Not with what he just witnessed. Tiresias couldn't blame him…

As soon as Gendry left with the weapons, Jory turned to him.

Tiresias met the guard's eyes. "Just say it, Jory. For god's sake."

"What the fuck were you thinking?" hissed Jory. The words came out short, with pauses scattered in between. He was struggling to keep composed.

Tiresias, on the hand, couldn't even shrug. "I wasn't really," he murmured. The calmness of his voice surprised him. Perhaps numbness was the more correct word. Once he was out of sight of the strangers and Lord Lydden and the Mountain…his fear, which threatened to overtake him in the hall, was now replaced with a lethargy.

Which proceeded to frighten him all over again. He couldn't face anyone with dead limbs.

He heard Jory scoff and throw himself into a chair. "I suppose that's obvious."

Silence weighed on them both. Needing to break out of it, despite it being warm already, Tiresias knelt before the hearth and proceeded to light a fire.

"Was this part of your plan?" asked Jory.

Tiresias turned to stare at him. "What? The rape, the deranged innkeeper, the Mountain's man bullying Lord Lydden into trial by combat? Think I planned that?"

"No! No, I mean…" Jory leaned forward, glancing to the door before lowering his voice. "Ever since King's Landing, you've been staring daggers at the Mountain. And last night you told us we were to ride ahead. When we saw Clegane enter Deep Den. Not five minutes after and you said that. Was this the mission all along? To…to see to him?"

To see to him? What a way to put it. He knew he had to lie. Jory was too good.

"Jory…there is no mission. I just…"

Saw an opportunity he couldn't pass? An assassination at night could work. But a trial by combat at sundown? With highborn witnesses? A legal way to bring down Lord Tywin's monster…

If he even could…

He shook his head. "I don't like it when people abuse their station to hurt those below…Jory, you saw her. She's thirteen. I…"

A lump in his throat threatened to choke him. Rosie came before him. The relief in her dead clear eyes…

He swallowed before continuing.

"As I said…I wasn't thinking."

Jory placed his head in his hands and sighed. Tiresias turned back to the flames.

"I did warn you not to come along."

"Well, forgive me, you shit." Jory looked back up. "When I promised Lord Stark I'd escort you back to Winterfell, I didn't think it'd be a funeral procession."

Tiresias got up from the fire and started to stretch, pressing against the wall.

"Perhaps not. If Gendry comes back. If he comes back with what I need…"

"Tiresias, you can't beat him."

He didn't look at Jory, just continued to breathe in and out, feeling the tension in his calf disperse. "Why not?"

Jory had to find his voice again before speaking. "You saw him, aye? The Mountain? Ser Gregor? That fucking giant in yellow?"

"I've fought big men before."

"Listen to me, Tiresias…" He heard the creak in the chair as Jory leaned forward. "This isn't a spar with Gord. I can spar with Gord. I can win against Gord. Clegane…the Mountain…you know who he is?"

Tiresias stood away from the wall and turned, meeting Jory's eye.

"He's one of the most intimidating fighters in Westeros, if not the most," Tiresias stated blithely. "Tywin Lannister's mad dog. His strength is freakish. It allows him to wear thick, heavy armor that would be dead weight to any other man. We saw it last night in the wagon. Along with that two-handed greatsword. Except he only needs one hand to wield it. And he swings it fucking fast. He's quicker than one would think for a man his size. Sound 'bout right?"

Jory stared at him. "You've seen him fight?"

Not in the flesh. "No."

"Well, I have. The Greyjoy Rebellion. He was there and I'll tell you what; it was the only time I felt sorry for the Ironborn. Those he came across. He doesn't fight, Tiresias. He demolishes. Relishes in what he can do."

And now that relish for violence will be directed at me, bemused Tiresias. He sat on the carpet and reached out, grabbing his toes.

Jory sighed, putting his face in his hands. "What am I supposed to say to Lord Stark?"

"I'll write him a letter for you."

"You idiot!" Jory knelt down to his face, his voice coming down to a harsh whisper. "You think you can explain all this madness in a letter? That Lord Stark will understand this?"

"He must," Tiresias replied, as evenly as he could. "He has no choice. And neither do you. And I'm sorry for that. I really am. I know I took you along in a horrible situation."

He pressed his body down along his legs, flat against the ground.

"But it's done. And I must act accordingly. As well as I can."

"Tiresias…listen to me, please."

He looked up to the young guard. Jory's voice was soft, his anger and his bewilderment spent. Now he just looked at Tiresias with sad eyes.

"You…beating the Mountain…it's…it's impossible...you're not stronger than him…no one is."

"I don't need to be stronger than him, Jory. I just need to be quicker."

Tiresias sat up, giving Jory his full attention. "But I also need your help. Not just before the duel, but during and after…will you be there, Jory? Regardless of what happens? I would like someone familiar with me."

Jory's sadness disappeared slowly from his eyes, to be replaced by a steadfast determination. He saw Ser Rodrik in the young man's eyes. Jory sighed again, before nodding.

"What do you need?"

He exhaled. "For now, not much. Just some privacy while I stretch, prepare and write down my last message for Lord Stark. Well…hopefully not my last. If you could, be with Gendry, make sure he's getting what he needs. Return with him when he's done."

"Do you want some food?"

Tiresias shook his head. "No, no…don't think I could eat anything anyway."

Jory stood. "I'll make sure you're sent something. Even it's just bread and dried meat. Something light. When you fight at sundown, you'll need your strength."

"All right," Tiresias replied automatically.

The young Cassel crossed to the door, pausing before it.

"I'll only say this once," he said turning back to the librarian. "You should have left the innkeeper to his fate."

And with that, Jory exited, shutting the door promptly, leaving Tiresias no chance to respond. Not that he could. A large part of him agreed with Jory.

That was hours ago. A servant had come and deposited a large tray of bread, cheese, cured meats and a single, green apple. Along with two pitchers, one filled with ale and the other water. Tiresias left the ale alone, but he ate everything else slowly throughout the day. He kept everything down, surprisingly.

He patted the rucksack with the hidden package and letter. He did hope Jory wouldn't suffer the wrath of Lord Stark for failing to bring him home. Trying to explain why he did what he did was quite challenging. How does one explain insanity? In the end, he simply wrote that too many people would die idiotically trying to kill the eldest Clegane.

Have I added myself to that list of idiots?

He laughed genuinely at the thought. Loudly too. It felt good. To truly laugh. He didn't have much time left…

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," he called. The door opened with Gendry, sweating, sooty and slightly panting. He carried a long package wrapped in cloth. Jory followed, shutting the door behind him.

No one spoke for a few seconds.

"Yes?" said Tiresias.

"It's done," said Gendry breathlessly. "What you asked…I think I got it right. Didn't upset the balance too much."

He handed the package to Tiresias, who took it carefully. He unwrapped it to reveal the spear that he selected from the armory. A sheath still covered the blade. He ran his fingers down the shaft, all the way to the other end, to the modification.

A small copper knob was newly welded to the bottom of the shaft. Tiresias covered it completely with his fist, cool to the touch. It wasn't pretty, but it would do for what he had planned. He stood away from Jory and Gendry and twirled it slowly. A little unusual, weighted, but not anything he couldn't handle.

He propped it up with two fingers and held it steady for several seconds. The balance was still good.

Bringing it down, he turned back to the young blacksmith. "Good work, Gendry. Good work. This will do."

Gendry sighed in relief. He probably worked as fast as he could without messing it up.

"I got the blade too." He pointed to the end. "If you wish…if you want to see."

Carefully, Tiresias removed the padding and examined the edge. It gleamed in the firelight.

"I can't believe you selected a spear," Jory said wearily, interrupting his admiration. "You're seriously going to fight the Mountain with a spear?"

"I like spears," Tiresias replied. "Besides, a spear will counter his reach."

Jory had nothing to say to that. Tiresias covered the blade again and laid it against the desk. He didn't measure it, but it was at least a couple of feet taller than him.

Gendry cleared his throat. "Also," he said, reaching behind him. "I, um…I took care of this."

He held out Tiresias' dagger. The blade shined more sharply than it did when Mikken first handed it to him. Tiresias took the hilt, twirling it lightly before placing it in the sheath on his belt. It felt good to have that weight on his hip again.

His head was getting light again and he breathed slowly.

"You all right?" said Jory.

"Aye, aye," he muttered, sitting back down. "Thank you, Gendry. For everything." He gestured to the pitchers. "Why don't you have some ale? I didn't touch it."

Gendry nodded and poured himself a mug. Jory and Tiresias were left to look at each other.

"How much time?"

Jory sighed. "An hour. Maybe less. We saw the Septon arriving."

"All right," Tiresias murmured. "Guess I should suit up then."

"I suppose so." Jory went to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "I'll go and survey the inner hall. Make sure it's all right."

He needs to walk. He can't be in this silence.

Tiresias nodded. "Thank you."

With that, Jory departed, leaving Tiresias alone with Gendry. He stood and walked over to the leathers. He picked them up, holding them before dropping them back to the floor.

"Tiresias," he heard Gendry say. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know," Tiresias responded before he could stop himself. "Well, I suppose so. Considering everything…"

He turned to see the boy biting his lip nervously.

Words failed him and he fell quiet, running his hands through his hair. Months on the run, away from Winterfell, have allowed his hair to run long and errant.

He's got the advantage on you there, don't he? That short-cropped fucking hair…

He paused, with his fingers in his mop.

Who the hell said that? I remembered once, but now…

But a vague memory of it returned shortly. Another story which featured one man fighting a bigger one. Tiresias gave a soft hollow laugh.

"What is it?" asked Gendry, from behind him.

He shook his head, putting away the question. There was at least one advantage he had here though, compared to Dan Dority. He'd be carrying a blade. Two even.

Still…best not give that edge.

"Gendry?"

"Aye?" said Gendry, jumping to his feet.

"You know how to shear, don't you?"

The lad suppressed his confused look and nodded. Tiresias looked to the young blacksmith.

"I need one more favor from you."

The last of the sun was disappearing in the inner hall, the light traveling from the stone floor to the wall opposite the glass windows. Torches were lit and the two hearths blazed. The floor was cleared to make ample room for the Mountain and a librarian.

This was the hall where Lord Lydden received petitioners and conducted his duties. Tonight that involved watching this farce play out to its conclusion.

Lord Lydden already sat in his chair, before his banner. A badger against a background of green and brown. The colors of the forest that surrounded his keep.

Jory sighed. At least he was taking responsibility for this. The innkeeper was also seated before him, flanked by two guards. He looked grey and didn't seem capable of even lifting his head.

A Septon also stood by Lord Lydden's side. Along with several houseguards, the castle maester and a few more lords of the Westerlands, who had agreed to stay on as witnesses. Having learned that this foreign librarian was employed by Winterfell and that he'd have to answer to a Lord Paramount either way, Lord Lydden was determined to follow protocol and asked for their formal presence. Jory noted Lord Brax of Hornvale and Lord Prestor of Feastfires among them. He couldn't remember any of the other banners present. His mind wasn't staying still long enough to focus.

None of Lord Lydden's party seemed to meet his eyes. They all stood still, staring blankly at the empty floor. Before a mangled, skinny man spilled his blood all over it.

Stop, damn you, stop.

It made no difference. This duel would begin with that image, that fear in his head. Thinking it away wouldn't work…Gods know that he'd been trying to ever since this morning.

It was just a matter of waiting. Ser Gregor was late. A messenger came to the hall and reported that he was still preparing. That was a half hour ago. Lord Lydden didn't send a message back.

So they waited in silence. The shadows growing deeper. More torches were brought and the hall was bathed in firelight.

Tiresias didn't face the empty dueling area. He sat cross-legged on the stone, in front of a hearth, facing the fire, staring into it. He was shirtless, wearing only thin leathered pads strapped to his elbows. His knees were padded as well, over his trousers. The sheathed dagger on his left hip. The buckles on his boots pulled tight.

That was it. No helmet. No shield. No breastplate. No mail.

He walked into the hall like that with Gendry at his side, provoking whispers amongst all who gathered. Jory whispered urgently, trying to make him see a little reason in this madness and to wear actual fucking armor.

Tiresias merely smiled grimly.

"If the Mountain's sword finds me, there's no armor I can wear that would stop his blade. Nothing that wouldn't hinder my speed. My speed is the only weapon I have, Jory."

He certainly did look light on his feet. Carrying that spear, shirtless, lightly padded with Mikken's dagger at his side, he looked so bizarre that it took Jory a moment to notice that his hair was gone as well. Sheared to a short buzz.

After being informed that the Mountain would be late, Tiresias nodded and prowled the hall. He walked slowly over the stones in the floor, glancing from them to the pillars, taking in every inch of the dueling area. After a few moments, he straightened and walked back to the far hearth, settling in front of the fire.

He's been still ever since, his shoulders rising calmly with each breath. Jory tried to match it. He needed to be calm. He had to be. If not for Tiresias' and his own sake, then at least for Gendry's. He had promised Tiresias.

"Promise me, Jory," said Tiresias, holding out his rucksack. "Should I die, ride to Winterfell and give these items to Lord Stark. There's a letter in there and a wrapped package. Don't open them. Don't even look at them. Just get them to Lord Stark."

"I will," Jory stated numbly. The words just stumbled out of his mouth, but he still meant them.

"And Gendry. Get Gendry to Winterfell."

So…instead of Tiresias, he'd be escorting the King's bastard back to Winterfell. It was hard not to blame himself. Even as he looked at Tiresias staring into the fire, the serene stubbornness in his eyes…

Forgive me, Lord Stark. I tried.

Tiresias raised his head and turned to the other end of the room, to the door there. Still serene. Jory looked that way and focused his ears. He saw and heard nothing. He turned back to Tiresias, who exhaled through his nose, turning back to the flames.

"Gendry," he stated softly. The boy knelt next to him. "It's time for you to leave this hall and not return until Jory gets you. No matter what you hear."

They had discussed this before. Gendry wanted to stay, but Tiresias wouldn't hear of it. Finally the lad agreed and so Gendry merely nodded before standing.

"Good luck," he muttered, before looking to Jory. He nodded, dismissing him. Gendry exited the hall, his feet echoing dully across the stone.

When the door shut on him, Jory turned back to see Tiresias reaching into the fire.

He crossed to him. "What the hell are you doing?!" he hissed. Tiresias didn't even turn to him.

"Jory, I'm not touching the flames. Relax." Jory followed his arm and true enough, his fingers weren't touching the blaze. They dipped below the grate.

Jory couldn't help wincing. The ashes could still burn, but Tiresias' face remained impassive as he brought his fingers, black with soot, from the hearth. He observed his fingers calmly, before drawing his fingers across both his cheekbones.

The librarian rose blithely, rubbing the rest of the soot on his hands, drying them. Jory stared down at them, before pointing at the soot marks.

"Care to explain that?"

Tiresias flexed his fingers. "It's a reminder for you."

"A reminder of what?"

Tiresias turned to him, meeting his eyes and Jory stilled. There was something dangerous in his eyes.

"If I die…burn me."

Jory barely had enough time to nod before Tiresias knelt down and grabbed his spear. The protective sheath was still on the blade. He walked away from the hearth, his eyes on the opposite door. Jory followed him to the edge of the dueling area.

As they came to a halt, Jory heard it. Heavy footsteps, the metal clinking from the hallway, coming closer…

The guards heard it too, for they opened the door. All in the hall straightened to attention as the Mountain entered, followed by two of his men, one of whom was carrying his sword. The other, Tiresias said his name was Polliver, held his great shield.

Though not nearly as shocked as he was by Tiresias' lack of armor, he was still surprised to see Ser Gregor's full use of his. The only thing missing was his yellow surcoat.

And his sabatons, Jory noted, eyeing his feet. It seemed that Ser Gregor preferred his naked leather boots against the stone floor. More grip and more control.

Other than that, he had gone back to his wagon and donned his full protection. Plate over chainmail and boiled leather. His hands were covered in gauntlets. A flattop greathelm shielded his enormous head.

Despite his face being practically hidden, Jory could see the Mountain's eyes from the openings in his helm as he stared directly at Tiresias. They seemed to burn black. He hoped his friend was putting on a brave front. He didn't look to his side to check.

If Ser Gregor was surprised to see his opponent shirtless with only a few leathers, he didn't show it. Unlike his two men, who exchanged sickening looks of glee, their grins becoming even wider.

You fucking bastards…

Lord Lydden muttered to the Septon and stood.

"Will the two champions approach?"

Tiresias immediately walked forward. Ser Gregor trudged to his side. They both maintained a healthy distance from one another, halting in front of the Lord of Deep Den. Lord Lydden cleared his throat.

"We are here to settle the matter between Ser Gregor Clegane, his men listed, and Henri the innkeeper. On charges of theft of wages. To which Ser Gregor has plead not guilty and, by his right, demanded a trial by combat. He has agreed to fight for himself and all of his accused men. Henri's champion in this trial is the Essosi, Tiresias, who has volunteered of his own accord. Each man has had ample time to prepare."

He took a breath, before turning to the Lords present.

"With these Lords bearing witness, having each made their marks on the document accounting this trial, do you, Ser Gregor Clegane, proclaim this accounting to be true and agree to fight?"

Steel rose and fell with the Mountain's breathing. "Aye," he rumbled. Even with Lord Lydden on the higher step, he towered above his host.

Lord Lydden turned to Tiresias. "And you?

"Aye, I do," said Tiresias, his soft voice echoing in the hall.

The Lord nodded before continuing. "I must ask…will the two of you consider the notion of fighting to a yield and accepting quarter from the prevailing champion?"

Jory's eyes went to the Mountain, expecting to hear his rejection of such a notion. However…

"No quarter will be asked or given from me," said Tiresias. The two Mountain's men laughed but they were the only ones. All the rest of the hall stared at the librarian before turning to Clegane, who nodded slowly.

Lord Lydden nodded to the maester, who scribbled out that detail in the accounting, before pushing the ink and quill forward.

"Will the two champions please make their marks?" asked Lord Lydden, stepping aside.

Tiresias stepped first, signed quickly and returned to his place. Ser Gregor stalked forward slowly and barely scratched the parchment before stepping back.

Don't fall for that slow act, Tiresias. You know he can move very quickly in all that.

During all this, Ser Gregor and Tiresias kept their eyes forward. Not even glancing at each other. But this was only surface. Maybe he had been riding with Tiresias for too long, but he swore the Mountain's breathing had quickened since no quarter was declared. He was getting excited.

The maester took away the document and Lord Lydden's jaw set. There was nothing else for it now. He nodded to the Septon who came forward. Shuffling just before the two champions, the Septon lifted his head, along with a crystal sphere, looking to the ceiling, but seeing the heavens.

"In Deep Den tonight, we humbly ask the Seven to look down and bear witness on this trial by combat. To help us find truth in the soul of the accused. May the Father aid us with his judgment. May the Warrior lend his strength to the champion whose cause is just."

Jory resisted the urge to snort. Don't think one of these fuckers needs any more strength.

"May the Seven be with you both."

The Septon lowered his sphere and backed behind Lord Lydden, who sat back down in his chair, quite rigidly. He exhaled before raising his head.

"Whenever you're ready, go to your starting positions."

Clegane stalked back to his men who carried his sword and shield. Tiresias took a few seconds before finally turning and walking briskly back. His eyes locked on the librarian, Jory heard the Mountain drawing his greatsword from its sheath and realized that he wasn't breathing. He drew a breath as Tiresias came back to him, his face paling.

"Jory…" he muttered. "Jory, I need your help."

Jory glanced to see the Mountain walking to the dueling space with his shield and sword.

"What do you need?" he murmured back, hoping to the Old Gods he could fulfill Tiresias' request.

The man met his eyes. They were bright.

"I need you to hit me."

Jory blinked. "What?"

"Slap me across the face. Do it."

"Tiresias…I…what?"

"Jory, listen to me." Tiresias' tone turned urgent. "I'm in my head right now. I feel numb. If you don't slap me across the face right now, I will die. Do it."

Clegane was already in his place. Whispers from the lords were beginning to reach his ears.

"Now."

He brought his hand back and stuck Tiresias across the face. The whispers ceased.

Tiresias barely moved from the slap. "Again."

The hit echoed in the hall.

"Harder."

Tiresias took it again, facing Jory immediately.

"Harder, damn you. Harder!"

Jory slapped him before he finished speaking. Tiresias raised a hand, his face remaining to the side, breathing hard. The hall was silent.

Finally, after a few seconds, Tiresias turned back to face him. His cheek was red, but his eyes were calm.

He then removed the sheath from the spear, tossing it to the floor. With that, he turned, making for his spot.

Jory backed up, watching his friend walk to his doom. Tiresias twirled the spear as he settled. He didn't handle the spear as quickly as Jory would have liked. But then again, Tiresias wasn't a fighter who liked to show off. He hoped that spear would be flashing more swiftly in the next few minutes.

Tiresias stilled though, turning sideface, his spear pointed at Ser Gregor, who raised his shield. Their eyes remained on each other, while all other eyes in hall looked on. Lord Lydden's sigh echoed off the stone.

"Begin," the forlorn lord stated.

The Mountain began walking forward immediately. He trudged slowly toward the center. Tiresias crept forward to meet him, eyes unblinking.

Jory's breath began to shudder.

No…no, Clegane's not that slow. He's lulling you into range, man.

He wanted to shout, warn his friend. But he knew from experience that shouting advice was often more distracting than helpful. Plus, Tiresias knew the Mountain was quicker than he seemed. What the hell was he playing at?

And why the fuck was most of the spear shaft behind him?

Gripping his fists so hard they hurt, he swallowed his voice. Tiresias was just out of range for Clegane's greatsword. Everyone in the hall seemed to be holding their breath.

Tiresias was two steps into his range when Ser Gregor suddenly pulled back and swung.

He's dead. He's fucking dead.

The greatsword sang through the air, breaking the silence and nothing else. Jory blinked. Tiresias had fallen back, using the copper end of the spear to prop him up from the ground as Clegane's blade swept over him, missing him.

As the steel passed, Tiresias sprung up, using the spear to propel him. He was standing tall again by the time Ser Gregor had finished his swing.

The librarian then quickly twirled his spear, that the blade faced away from Ser Gregor, and brought the copper knob to Clegane's greathelm. He rapidly struck the Mountain's head four times before jumping back to avoid the retaliating swing from Clegane, whose howls echoed in his helm along with the taps from the spear's end.

That swing was wild though and avoided easily. Tiresias twirled the spear back around, pointing the spearhead at Ser Gregor as he circled carefully. The Mountain had his sword up as well, but his other hand gripped his helm, his shield loose. He shook his head repeatedly, breathing harshly.

Jory's eyes remained fixed on the Mountain. If he wasn't so nervous, he would have smiled. He didn't know the man had such sensitive ears. Tiresias struck well, and with that greathelm strapped on, Clegane couldn't rub the pain away. It just rang and rang…

Still, Tiresias…I don't know what you're thinking. Just getting him pissed off. You should have struck at his armpit when you had the chance.

Tiresias darted forward, thrusting the spear toward Clegane, scratching his armor. The metal screeched in the hall. The Mountain roared as he brought his sword to the spear, but Tiresias had already brought it back and thrusted it again at Ser Gregor's arm. The blade scrapped along his right vambrace, sliding quickly under the couter, before Tiresias retracted it and retreated, sidestepping around the huge knight.

Jory hoped he didn't imagine hearing links breaking between the couter and the vambrace. He couldn't see if it had loosened from the last strike.

Ser Gregor kept Tiresias in his sights, turning to face him as he circled, through the eye openings in his greathelm. Jory saw the fire reflected in the Mountain's eyes. They shone with fury. The echoes from the copper knob had passed and Ser Gregor's sword was raised high again, ready to pay Tiresias back for the headache.

Tiresias' eyes were bright too and his naked torso did nothing to hide his nerves. He breathed rapidly, however his grip was on his spear was firm and he stepped lightly.

Other than the two champions breathing, the hall was completely silent. Jory didn't take eyes off the duel, but he was certain that more than one onlooker was staring, shocked by the first bout.

Clegane had enough of waiting though and charged forward, any feign of slowness dropped. Tiresias crouched and thrust the spear at his gorget. The spear scraped the surface, as Clegane raised his shield, pushing the spear upward as he swung down at Tiresias.

The librarian swung his spear back around as he dodged the sword, rolling to his side and coming to his feet again. The Mountain tried to bring the sword back to strike him, but Tiresias was already out of reach.

However, he didn't wait for Clegane to center himself before coming forward again. Crouched low and jabbing his spear at the Mountain's feet. Clegane might have more control with his leather boots, but he risked the exposure.

That exposure made the Mountain dance back a few steps as Tiresias advanced, bringing his spear quickly from one foot to the other. Clegane tried swinging his sword at the man, but the length of the spear allowed Tiresias to stay out of his range, dodging as he continued to jab.

Finally, Ser Gregor brought the shield down and merely swung at the spear itself. His blade dragged quickly along, bringing up sparks, but the spear was no longer biting at his boots. Both of which were punctured. Tiresias stepped back, bringing the spear up as he did. Jory saw blood on the steel…

But the Mountain pressed on, unbothered by his foot. Either the cut wasn't too deep or Clegane was impervious to the pain. He actually seemed to have calmed and was bearing down on Tiresias, who jabbed at his armor before scurrying away from the greatsword.

They went back and forth as such for a prolonged time. Jory swore it was ten minutes of this, but he knew it couldn't have been more than two. Tiresias jumped in and out of the Mountain's range, adding more scratches to his armor and shield, his strikes at the joints becoming more pointed. However, Clegane wasn't letting him settle for an easy target. More than once, Tiresias attempted to get behind him but he kept the librarian to his front, pivoting and swinging his sword at his friend.

Sweat shone on Tiresias' torso and his arms began to shake slightly as he held the spear high. Clegane's breath could be heard pushing past the orifices in his helm and the bleeding from his right foot was beginning to exit from his boot on to the floor.

Jory forgot to breathe again and he inhaled a shuddering breath.

Come on, damn it, you need more than one cut…get behind him, damn you. Get behind him!

The longer this went on, the more hopeful he became that Tiresias could actually survive…but he became more fearful as well.

Tiresias brought his spear close and yelled. More than one man jumped. It was the first noise that this strange man had made the entire fight.

Still yelling, Tiresias began to charge at the Mountain who raised his sword.

Jory couldn't help it. "No, Tiresias! No!" he yelled.

The librarian didn't register his plea, continuing only to rush forward as Clegane swung his sword down.

That's when Tiresias dove and rolled, not away from the sword but toward it, hugging his spear…

The Mountain tried to correct mid-swing, bring his sword lower, but it was too late. The sword passed over the rolling librarian. Jory heard a grunt and a hiss from Tiresias as the man hit the floor and rolled to his feet, spear gripped in his left hand.

Behind Ser Gregor. At his knees.

No, the spear's too long. He won't swing it around in time!

But then he saw the other steel that Tiresias held...

Tiresias threw back his right hand, jamming the dagger into the back of Ser Gregor's knee. An enraged scream of pain emanated from the helm and Clegane whirled back around with his sword. Tiresias barely missed it, yelling as he jumped away. The librarian backed away quickly, wiping the dagger on his pant leg before sheathing it again. The spear came back to his right hand. He raised it as he circled at a safe distance.

And a safe distance he could now maintain. Clegane made an effort, but in addition to his punctured knee, his other leg was suffering a maimed foot. The Mountain was moving as slowly as his namesake.

That's it, mate. That's it. Topple him. Fucking topple him!

Then he got a good look at his friend. Tiresias had paid for that last maneuver. A gash ran down his chest. He didn't entirely miss the retaliating swing. By some miracle though, the injury seemed shallow. Tiresias had managed to avoid the worst, but he was still bleeding and in pain.

He still had his two feet though. As he circled, the Mountain pivoted to face him, his knees were shaking. Hisses shot from Clegane's mouth as he moved. But the Mountain stayed in one place and he seemed content to wait.

"I dare you…" he rumbled, breaking the silence in the hall. "I dare you to try that again."

Though Tiresias wasn't one to be baited like that, Jory eyed his friend nervously. Clegane was injured, but he wouldn't die without a finishing blow. From a distance, he was still quick enough to block Tiresias' spear. Finishing Clegane meant getting closer, inside the shield. And the greatsword, which Clegane still held high.

Finishing him…Tiresias finishing the Mountain…Gods, I'm thinking some queer thoughts…

It was pure darkness outside now. Only the hearths and the torches gave light to this inner hall. The crackle of their flames was only accompanied by the panting of the two fighters, their duel at a standstill. All the rest stood silent. Jory didn't glance to them. He couldn't.

Tiresias began to stalk forward, his left hand cupping the copper end of the spear, extending the blade before him. Clegane swung his sword against the spear but Tiresias withdrew it to jab again, which Clegane met with his shield. He pushed the spear back with enough force to send Tiresias flying off balance into a pillar.

Bringing a leg up behind, the librarian managed to push off the pillar and regain his balance. His shoulders rose and fell rapidly.

Wait to catch your breath. He can't catch you. Just wait!

But there was a difference between observing a fight and being in one. Jory wasn't the one facing the Mountain and he couldn't blame Tiresias for moving before his breath was completely back.

Shuffling quickly, Tiresias circled Clegane. The maimed giant tried to turn with Tiresias, but he couldn't quite manage it. Tiresias was finally at his back and thrusted the spear forward. The blade entered under the fauld and the Mountain screamed in pain.

But then Jory saw Clegane straighten up and whirl his arm around.

No…no, not just in pain. Fortifying himself...

He saw the Mountain reach for the spear, having dropped his shield. Tiresias saw it too and tried to withdraw the spear. However when Clegane straightened, he had locked the blade under his armor, under the fauld, at extreme pain to himself, securing his enemy's weapon.

It didn't matter how quick Tiresias was. The spear was trapped and with his left hand, Clegane grabbed it below the blade before Tiresias could withdraw it. Jory saw the struggle on his friend's face and knew. Even when bleeding profusely, Clegane had more strength.

So, Tiresias didn't fight it. He gave into Clegane's pull and pushed the spear farther in. Ser Gregor roared louder and swung his sword around, cutting the spear in half. Tiresias was sent to the ground by the release.

Clegane didn't give him a second. Even with a spearhead in his back, a maimed foot and a punctured knee, he reached back for the shield and threw it at his opponent. Tiresias was just off the floor and was barely able to raise his leathered elbows before the shield crashed into him.

No armor meant he took the full brunt of an oaken shield. Which sent him back to the floor, hitting the stone. Jory winced, hissing at the contact. Tiresias still had the presence of mind to guard himself as he hit the floor. A shout of pain escaped him though and he was stunned on the ground, as Clegane began to amble forward.

Could have used fucking armor for that…

Jory clenched his teeth as the Mountain crawled closer, trailing blood behind him as he neared his friend. Tiresias saw him coming as well, but that didn't make his battered arms work faster. He fell back to the stone once, before managing to push himself back to his feet. He breathed heavily. They both did. Jory swore he saw spit spewing from the Mountain's helm as he exhaled.

Any pretense at honor was gone. This was no longer a duel. Just a bloody free-for-all.

Tiresias shook his arms, trying to get the feeling back, eyes on the encroaching Clegane. He still had feeling in his legs though. Ser Gregor was near enough to swing his greatsword. Tiresias dodged the blade, backing up and Clegane hit the ground with his momentum.

Stepping a few steps back, eyes still forward, Tiresias bent down and grabbed Clegane's discarded shield. Swinging back, he threw the shield out. It crashed away from them. Ser Gregor was down to his sword. Tiresias to his dagger.

Or perhaps not. The librarian walked forward toward the knight, who was struggling to his knees. Tiresias bent down to retrieve the other half of his severed spear. Raising the copper knob above his head, he advanced cautiously.

His breath hadn't slowed though, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Back on his knees, Clegane swung the greatsword. Tiresias ducked low, coming back up, after the sword had passed. He struck the helm twice before Clegane swung his sword back across, growling in pain. Tiresias prepared to dodge again, dropping to the floor for the sword to pass overhead.

Instead, it fell to the ground beside him. Jory blinked. The Mountain had dropped his sword, reaching for his friend.

Tiresias tried to move away, but it was too late. Clegane grabbed his left arm, gripping it tightly. The severed spear came loose, clanging to the floor with the sword. He saw Tiresias, face pained from the Mountain's grip, reached for the dagger with his free hand. But as he drew the dagger and thrusted it towards the helm, Ser Gregor grabbed that arm as well.

No…no, no, no.

With Tiresias trapped, Clegane released the left arm and swung down with all his fury on his friend's right arm. He heard the crack echo in the chamber.

An unhinged shriek came from Tiresias and Jory's heart stilled.

No! No! Please gods, no!

Clegane gripped the librarian's forearm, which bent unnaturally. Tiresias' screams of pain echoed around the room, but were stifled when Ser Gregor gripped his throat and pulled him close.

Jory forced himself to look. He promised himself he'd see this through, see Tiresias' last moments. With his quivering legs, his face turning blue and his broken arm which Clegane still grasped. Time slowed as Jory focused on the arm, against his wishes, wrapped by Clegane's giant fist, up to the librarian's own hand, rigid, still holding the…

Jory blinked. Where was the dagger? Did he drop it? Where—?

His eyes found it before he registered it in his mind. Tiresias' left arm now hung free, the dagger held along the forearm.

Still gasping for air, Tiresias flipped the dagger upward and thrusted it up into the Mountain's helm.

The librarian dropped, his gasps morphing back to wheezing, pained screams. Clegane managed to bring his hands halfway to his helm, to the lodged blade upwards in his eye, before halting. He knelt there frozen for several heartbeats. No one in the room breathed, save for his maimed opponent.

Ser Gregor fell forward, the clash of his armor echoing throughout the room. Tiresias managed to get to his knees and turned to see his opponent lying on the floor, blooding pooling from his head. He began to shudder violently as he rubbed his throat. However that seemed to pain him as well. Tiresias moaned and cradled his bent arm as best he could, his breath coming in rasps

Go! Go, damn you. He needs help! Go!

But Jory couldn't move and neither could anyone else in the room. All eyes were frozen on the unmoving giant that laid before them…

However, those eyes began to move to the Septon. It took Lord Lydden glancing to him for the old man to clear his throat.

"The Seven have made their judgment known," he called across the hall. "Ser Gregor Clegane is guilty of his charge."

Jory moved as quickly as he could. He came to his knees before Tiresias. Tears were streaming down the man's face.

"He's dead, aye?" He coughed, wincing as he did. "Jory, he's dead. Fucking dead, right?" His teeth were beginning to chatter.

"Aye, mate, aye" Jory muttered quickly. He glanced over to Clegane's still corpse. "He's dead. You did it. He's dead."

"It hurts, Jory," Tiresias moaned. "Oh god, it fucking hurts."

Jory stood. "Maester! We need a maester here!"

The maester rushed from Lord Lydden's side. Jory had to give some props to the old man. Everyone else in the room still looked shocked.

The maester unstrapped the leathers from the elbow and took Tiresias's broken arm as gently as he could. However, the librarian still flinched, moaning in pain.

"We need to get him to my quarters," said the maester. "Right now."

It took a few minutes to get Tiresias up on his feet. Jory gripped his left shoulder, taking care not to jostle his right side. They stalked from the hall slowly. The maester recruited a few soldiers to accompany them.

When they reached the corridor, Jory saw Gendry, staring at them, his face pale. He motioned for the lad to follow. Gendry swallowed whatever questions he had and trailed behind them. Nobody said anything.

They came to the maester's quarters, full of books, vials and many lit candles. The maester gestured the guards to the long table.

"Clear all that and bring it next to the fire."

Once that was set, Jory led Tiresias to the bare table and helped him lay down. The maester returned with a vial and a dropper.

"Open wide, Tiresias. If you would."

Tiresias didn't hesitate, opening his mouth as wide as he could, his breaths coming in shudders and gasps. Swallowing the drops caused him to wince. The maester closed the vial and turned to the house guards.

"Take off your armor. All of it."

All three of them looked to each other before coming back to the maester, who sighed exasperatedly.

"What I need you to do will be much easier without those plates. Now, take them off, damn it."

As the guards began to drop their armor to the floor, the maester turned back to the table. Tiresias' breath was beginning to calm slightly, though the pain still remained. Jory had given his hand to Tiresias' left and he was gripping it very tightly.

"What did you give him?"

"Milk of the Poppy," the maester replied. He reached for the broken arm and extended it gently. Tiresias still hissed, but he surrendered his limb. Jory patted his shoulder and turned to the maester.

"Your name, maester?"

"Seamas," the man responded, not taking his eyes off the arm. He laid his fingers as gently as he could along the length of Tiresias' forearm. Rasped moans and gritted teeth accompanied every touch. It was several minutes before Maester Seamas looked up.

"The bone's not shattered. It's a complete break." He let out a breath. "Your friend is lucky. Were it in several pieces, I don't know how I could set it, but…"

He crossed to the desk and poured a cup of water, taking a decent draught before filling it again.

"With a complete break, I have more indication…more guidance to set it. If I get it right, I'll know. He will too."

He crossed back to the table and lifted the cup to Tiresias' lips. The librarian drank greedily and groaned as he did so, tears still running down his cheeks. It must hurt him to swallow. Jory stared. He'd only ever seen this in the Iron Islands.

"I think he's going into shock, Maester."

"Yes, that's common," said Seamas, going back to his desk. "The Milk of the Poppy will help, but this is a great pain."

"Setting it…setting it will be worse…"

All eyes turned to the table. Tiresias has gasped out that last sentence, before going back to shudders. Seamas approached the table, with straps in his hand, but he had forgotten them.

"Have you broken a bone before?" he asked the supine librarian.

Tiresias nodded through his tears. The maester sighed.

"Well then, you know what I need to do. You want to wait for the full effect of the Milk of the Poppy, however…" He gestured to the arm. "You can see it's already beginning to swell. I cannot wait too long, otherwise I won't be able to properly set it."

The librarian breathed in and out, his chest heaving. "How long?" he wheezed.

The maester looked to his arm and back. "Five minutes. That's as long as I'd risk."

Tiresias nodded jerkily. "All right, all right, all right…"

Seamas turned to the soldiers who had all removed their armor.

"Men, I need you to hold him."

Ever since they had left the inner hall, the soldiers hadn't stopped staring at Tiresias. Despite this, they came to the table where Seamas handed them the straps.

"They won't hold everything, but they will help."

They reached under the table and strapped the quivering librarian's feet, his hips and his chest, reaching gently under the broken arm to do so. Tiresias' breath calmed slightly in these few moments. However, Jory saw the pain in his face and knew it wouldn't be enough.

The five moments were gone by now and the maester returned with a leathered piece of wood. He placed it in Tiresias' mouth who took it as willingly as he did the Milk of the Poppy.

Seamas rolled up his sleeves, tying them.

"All right. Marcus, take his knees. Holt, his hips. Nestor, his shoulders. He doesn't move, you understand?"

The men all nodded and took their positions, placing their hands on Tiresias. Seamas turned to Jory.

"Continue to hold his hand. Just be careful he doesn't break it." He glanced at Gendry. "You, boy. You wish to help?"

Gendry jumped but nodded. Seamas beckoned him over.

"I need you…" he said, guiding Gendry's hands to Tiresias' elbow. "To hold this still. You look strong. Can you hold it still?"

"Aye," said Gendry, swallowing and nodding fiercely. "Aye, I can." The lad planted his feet and gripped the elbow. A low moan escaped from Tiresias. Seamas turned to the librarian.

"It's time. I can't put it off it any longer." He placed a comforting hand on the Tiresias' shoulder. "If you've truly had a broken bone mended before, then you know how sorry I am for what I'm about to do."

Tiresias nodded his head viciously, before setting his head down, staring at the ceiling with bright, streaming eyes. Jory looked back to Seamas, who nodded grimly.

"Good, you know not to look." He looked to them all. "Hold him."

The men tightened their grips, laying all their weight on Tiresias. Seamas bent over the arm and clutched it. Tiresias gave a soft scream.

"On the count of three," Seamas muttered, his eyes boring on the arm. "One, two, three."

He pulled the arm and Tiresias' soft scream turned high, piercing through the mouthguard. As much as it hurt to scream, it certainly didn't stop him. Jory's hand was crushed under Tiresias' vice grip, but all the rest of the men stayed motionless, keeping the librarian's body still. Jory couldn't bring himself to look at the maester working, but finally Seamas stood up.

Jory looked over and saw that the arm was straightened. However…it still didn't look quite right to him. Evidently the maester thought so as well, a frown coming over his face.

He glanced over to see Gendry staring at him. The lad's face was shining with sweat, but his blues eyes were quite determined.

Seamas leaned over to Tiresias. "I need to try again."

Tiresias moaned, fresh tears streaming down his face.

"I know, I know," Seamas said. "It's almost there. You'll feel it when it sets right but it's not there yet and I need to try again."

Tiresias nodded frantically and Seamas didn't wait for him to change his mind.

"Hold him." The men resumed their grips and Jory gave Tiresias his left hand. His right one deserved a break.

"One, two, three."

Jory kept his eyes on Tiresias. The man screamed again against the mouthguard. His body convulsed under the straps and the men and his eyes kept streaming.

"That's all right," Jory whispered. "Just scream. It's all right. It's almost there. Just keep screaming."

Tiresias gasped loudly and Jory looked frantically to the maester to see the damage…but Seamas' expression was calm. He followed the expression to the arm…which looked normal. Swollen, but right…

He turned back to Tiresias, who was breathing deeply and rapidly. Tears still flowed and he still wheezed, but his eyes shone with relief. Seamas reached over and removed the mouthguard, gesturing to the men.

The house guards straightened up and left Tiresias breathing deeply on the table. Maester Seamas wiped his brow.

"That's as good as I can do…thank you, men. You may leave now."

Jory barely registered the metal clinks and clunks as the house guards gathered their armor off the floor. Tiresias hadn't let go off of his hand yet.

That's all right. You hold it as long as you need it…you stupid, lucky bastard.

Maester Seamas came over with another cup of water. Tiresias drank it all.

"I'll need to set a splint. The brace I usually have is in use. So please, wait here and I'll be back with another. Keep that arm still. I also need to see to your gash. And your throat."

The maester exited, leaving Jory alone with Gendry and the supine idiot. Gendry met his eyes.

"I gotta piss," he muttered before leaving to find a privy.

The room was hardly quiet, between Tiresias' relieved, wheezed panting and the crackle of the fire. Jory sat on the table and sighed, the tension of the entire day slithering out of his feet.

Tiresias began to laugh softly.

"What?" Jory mumbled. He was too tired to even look at the man.

"It was the first one," rasped Tiresias, swallowing his spit and wincing. "I wondered…I wondered which one I'd see here…"

That made Jory turn. Tears continued to flow slowly from the librarian, but he was smiling, looking to the ceiling, seeing something that wasn't there.

"What do you mean?" asked Jory softly.

Tiresias's breath slowed as he relaxed. "Which mountain I'd see. He had three faces…it was the first one."

His voice was so soft, Jory strained to hear it. Even then, it didn't make sense. He shook his head.

"There's only one Mountain, Tiresias…and you got him." A grin spread across his face as he lowered his voice to a whisper. "He's dead. You fucking got him."

"Aye…aye…" Tiresias panted, as his eyes fluttered shut.