Chapter 33

Time played strange tricks on Tiresias' mind over the next few sennights. The hours dragged on, but when evening came and the sea shone gold with the setting sun, it seemed that the entire day had melted away rather quickly.

The ache didn't help. Though the pain lessened and he regained dexterity in the fingers in his right hand, the progress was gradual. He slept more than he had in years. In between all the espionage in the North, King's Landing and traveling into the Westerlands, he hadn't found a true place to refocus and rebuild his strength. It also helped that he had no library to curate. He was simply expected to be a lazy ass and recover.

So despite being hosted by one of the most dangerous lords in Westeros, he resolved to recoup his strength. He slept in most mornings. Then after breakfast, he usually went to the library. His pile of tomes remained undisturbed and he simply picked up where he had left off previously.

Lunch happened wherever he could find it. Food was in abundance in the Rock and it was no difficulty to find substance as he wandered the Lannister home. It took him a few days to explore all the rooms that Casterly Rock had to offer. At least, on top of the cliff. The catacombs below he left to the household.

Tyrion was usually able to find him. He had numerous servants to point towards the stranger in his home. His short step was quite familiar to Tiresias by now.

Their conversations usually started with Tyrion explaining the history or rumors relating to whichever area of the castle they began in. He let the man lead him on as they walked and talked. By the time supper was served, it was usually accompanied by a spectacular view of the ocean, the eastern forests or Lannisport. Or in one of the numerous handsome halls.

Tonight led them to the gardens, which shocked Tiresias slightly. He had forgotten what a landscaped garden looked like. Though he much preferred the wild nature of the North, there was still an artistry here that he didn't realized he had missed. And with his nose, the scents enclosed by these stone walls nearly overwhelmed him. In a good way. The smells of dinner played second fiddle tonight, as he was content to take in the flowers and other florae.

Tyrion seemed content to stay in the garden too. They lit braziers after the meal was taken away and a cyvasse board replaced it. With intricate pieces of ivory and jade.

Upon hearing that Tiresias had never played before, Tyrion insisted on teaching him. He wasn't a particularly good instructor, as Tiresias could barely keep tracks of the pieces, how they moved, what they did. But that didn't seem to matter. Their conversations usually overtook the game in priority.

Usually. Right now, Tyrion's hand rubbed the base of his goblet in concentration, his eyebrows furrowed. Tiresias sipped his own goblet, sighing.

"You know how good I am at this, right?"

Tyrion didn't answer and Tiresias laughed lightly. "You don't need to waste that much time thinking up a defense against me."

"The last Westerlander who underestimated you ended up dead," mused Tyrion, before bringing out his trebuchet. He leaned back and drank.

"Westerlander?"

Tyrion shrugged. "Not much else in common with the late Clegane."

"Well, lucky for you. My dagger is away from me," murmured Tiresias, his eyes on the board. What the hell did one move against a trebuchet?

"Is that how you killed him?" Tyrion asked, his eyebrows raising as Tiresias moved a heavy horse forward. "Hmm…interesting counter…"

His eyes met Tiresias'. "Apologies. Am I allowed to inquire on that now?"

"Are we properly acquainted now, Lord Tyrion?"

"You haven't appeared before me stupid drunk, but that would move us beyond mere acquaintance…yes…yes, I say we are."

Fetching the pitcher, he refilled his goblet and gestured for Tiresias'. Sighing, the librarian relinquished his cup.

"What say you?" said Tyrion, his eyes on the flowing wine. He handed it back to Tiresias, who took a lean sip. Leaning back in his chair, he turned to the brazier, gazing into the dancing flames…

"I put a dagger through Ser Gregor's eye," he said quietly. "Danced around until I was able to do so. It wasn't a glorious duel. I screamed in pain 'fore it finished. It soon hurt to do even that. He grabbed my throat, bruised it. After I shoved the dagger up into his brain, I ended up kneeling on the floor, cradling my arm, whimpering in agony. Not really a noble or stoic end for either of us."

He gazed at the brazier for a beat more before turning back to see Tyrion staring into his own goblet, considering his words. Finally the lord shrugged.

"Well, I wouldn't worry about that. Songs tend to mull over unbecoming traits in the victors."

He stared. "Is there a song already?"

Tyrion returned his focus to the board. "Not that I've heard. Not so much as a name yet."

"A name?"

"Certainly. You didn't think you would merely kill Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain Who Rides and not get a name out of it?"

"I have a name," murmured Tiresias.

"How about Mountainfall? Mountainsbane?"

"How about Tiresias?"

Tyrion moved forward his trebuchet. "Mountainclimb? No, no, someone who climbs mountains. Who climbs mountains…?"

He clapped his hands. "Goats! Tiresias Mountaingoat!"

Tiresias didn't return his smile. "You call me any other name but Tiresias and I start calling you Imp."

Tyrion's mouth lined, but he still kept his smile.

"Fine, fine," he said, raising his hands. "But others will have names for you, Tiresias. And there will be songs. Perhaps they'll welcome you back to Winterfell with one."

Tiresias brought his spearman back. "I'm going to be connected to that giant shitheap for the rest of my life, am I?"

"Small price for having your life. Though if it's any comfort, it's not just whispers of the late Clegane that follow you in this castle."

He stared at Tyrion. "What do you mean?"

"I've heard stories. The servants talk, the lords talk, soldiers especially talk. The ones that escorted you have spread some fascinating rumors."

"And what rumors might those be?"

His host pushed forward an ivory elephant. "Are there any owls in the garden tonight, my friend? Hunting their vermin?"

The lift in his tone was unmistakable, but Tiresias refused to rise to it. He shrugged.

"More than likely. It's a big enough garden."

"Hmm…" said Tyrion through a draught. He swallowed and wiped his mouth. "Well, I don't know much else. It's already unbelievable; for our most fearsome knight to be slain by a librarian. Which made me laugh quite a bit, so thank you. But I'm afraid I don't quite know what songs they'll sing about you. They should be some riveting ballads. You won when you weren't supposed to. You avenged a peasant girl. You royally pissed off my lord father. So again…thank you."

"I don't think anyone wants to be in another song where they've pissed off Tywin Lannister."

Tyrion gave a humorless smirk. "Well…unlike the Reynes or the Tarbecks, you'll live to hear it."

"Will I?" Tiresias asked quietly. "Will your father let me leave Casterly Rock alive?"

The questions came out of him before he could help it. However, he didn't back down and returned Tyrion's thoughtful glance with his own gaze.

The lord sipped his wine before answering.

"My darling sister, the queen…she called for your beheading a fortnight ago. Did you know that?"

Tiresias' heart stopped, but he still managed to shake his head.

"No. No, I didn't," he responded numbly.

"Well, obviously, that didn't happen. Nothing public. She merely wrote, suggesting my father right the insult. My father responded, explaining to her that one; your duel with Ser Gregor was sanctioned by the Seven as a trial-by-combat. Two; you partook of guest right. And three; you're a servant of House Stark, employed by a man her husband, the king, considers a dear friend. She withdrew her suggestion shortly thereafter."

"I'm sure your sister could find ways around all those reasons. Your father as well."

Tyrion nodded. "I'm sure they could. If Cersei hadn't heard that reasoning from my father, she would have pursued it. Avenged our dog's death. You're quite lucky you know. My sister only cowers before a select few in the Seven Kingdoms.

"As for Father…well, it's too complicated to concern himself. He lost his fearsome bannerman, but the fearsome bannerman and his idiot men are the ones who demanded the trial in the first place. You may be not of Lord Stark's blood, but you're still under his protection and it's too much of a mess to add your death to it. However…" He drained his cup and reached for the pitcher. "I wouldn't want to be Lord Lydden anytime soon. Even with his witnesses and his Septon and his scrupulous record of that night…"

He glanced to Tiresias. "And you…he'll keep an eye on you. You'll be better off once you disappear up north into that library of yours. But you'll no longer be a mere librarian. And not just in my father's eyes."

No…no, in Roose's eyes as well. Tiresias drained his cup as well and held it out for a refill. Congratulations, dickhead. Two masterminds behind the Red Wedding are now eyeing you in suspicion.

Why not just visit the Twins again on your way up and piss off Walder Frey? Get the whole set.

His cup refilled, he brought it back to his lap, staring at the crimson fluid. It was beautiful in a way.

"But…" said Tyrion, leaning back, a huge grin spreading across his face. "It's not all bad."

He clapped his hands. "In fact, I have a marvelous idea! You should sail south on your way home. All the way around. Visit Dorne. I'm sure the news has spread there by now. Drop that name of yours and you won't spend a single night alone in that kingdom."

Tiresias snorted softly. "Perhaps. Then again, probably not the best idea."

"Why not?"

"I don't have the stamina for such a venture. Besides…" He shrugged. "I didn't kill the Mountain for Elia Martell and her children. I did it to save an innkeeper...and then I spent the following sennights being hosted by House Lannister."

He sipped the wine and blinked rather slowly. This would have to be his last cup of the evening.

"I've heard Prince Oberyn is rather volatile when it comes to the late Clegane…and to your family. There's a good chance he hates me now for stealing his vengeance."

"Hmm…" mused Tyrion. "Well, I can't say either way. Never met the man."

The temptation rose to reveal Oberyn's visit to the Rock when he was a boy with Elia. When Cersei showed her new baby brother to the young Viper and relayed her wish to see him dead.

He stymied the thought. That bit of emotional devastation wouldn't help him now.

"So…" Tyrion handled a rabble for a second before folding his hands again. "You didn't kill Ser Gregor for Elia Martell and her children?"

Tiresias shook his head. "No," he sighed.

"He hadn't injured you or insulted you personally?"

"No."

"So, then…why did you volunteer to fight? Was it really just for the innkeeper?"

For him, for Layna…for Rosie. Wanting to make up for that.

"Is that really so hard to believe? Your father had the same suspicion."

"Well, your victory was…rather inconceivable. To believe that your offer to fight was simply a vengeful whim for a stranger and his daughter…well, it calls for a more trusting deposition than mine. Or my father's."

Tyrion sipped his wine and moved his rabble forward. It was a beginner's move. A pittance for his opponent.

Or a trap to lure me out.

He considered his pieces along with his answer. A full minute passed before he spoke.

"She served me and…" He stopped himself from mentioning Jory and Gendry, but he realized there was no point being secretive to that. Jory Cassel was there by his side during the duel. In front of witnesses.

He held out for Gendry though. ""She served me and my companion. She seemed…light. She was a child. I saw her afterwards when I was recovering at the inn. She wasn't light anymore. But she was still a child. Hurt. Broken. And when her father came to Deep Den, driven to hysteria for what they did to her…I think I saw her broken before I saw her for real and…"

Recognizing the ramble, he collected himself before continuing.

"Would you believe me if I said I wasn't thinking clearly when I volunteered?"

"It's the simplest explanation," said Tyrion quietly. "Certainly would explain the innkeeper. Why he barged into that hall."

Tiresias leaned back and sipped his wine. "I don't like highborns abusing the smallfolk for their amusement. Killing, thieving, bullying, raping."

He met Tyrion's eyes. "It's what I said to your father. But perhaps he feels differently. Doesn't mind if his soldiers rape a thirteen-year-old common girl."

It wasn't the time to mention Tysha, if there even was a time, but he came close. From the look on Tyrion's face, he certainly made the connection. The cyvasse game laid forgotten before them. Finally the lord drained his cup, sighing as he brought it down.

"I see…"

"Then do you understand why I volunteered?"

Tyrion smirked slightly. "I suppose."

Tiresias drank himself. "That's what makes you different than your father."

"Perhaps…though I do confess," He reached for the pitcher again. "I still share his suspicions."

Meeting that last sentiment with silence probably did more to increase Tyrion's suspicions than placate them, but Tiresias couldn't help it. He sipped and placed the goblet down, his eyes settling on the red wine therein.

"Would you like to hear a joke?"

Tiresias looked up to the lord. "A joke?"

Tyrion shrugged. "You seemed tired and dour. And I would hate to end this evening on such a melancholic note."

He continued to stare at Tyrion for a beat, before sighing.

"All right."

Tyrion took a drink before clearing his throat.

"I once brought a jackass and a honeycomb into a brothel. The madam approached me and said 'How may we service you?' I said 'I need a woman to lay with, madam, for mine has left me, you see.'

"'Whatever for?' said the madam. 'And why do you have a honeycomb and a mule?'

"'Well, madam, my woman found a genie in a bottle and he granted her three wishes. She first wished for a house fit for a queen, so he gave her this honeycomb. She then wished to have the finest ass in all the land, so the genie gave her this damn donkey.'

"'And the third wish?' asked the madam. 'What did she want with the third wish?'

"'Well madam…she went and asked for my cock to hang down past my knee.'

"'Oh…that's not so bad, is it?'

"'Not so bad? Madam, I used to be six foot three!'"

Tiresias stared for a solid few seconds before he started to laugh. He laughed softly, but he couldn't stop. Tyrion joined him, delighted in his success and they laughed together under the brazier's light.

Finally, Tiresias collected himself and raised his goblet, still grinning as he drank. Tyrion sipped his wine as well.

"See?" he said. "How do you feel now?"

Tiresias sighed his final chortle. "Relieved."

"Relieved?"

"Never heard the end of that joke. Only the beginning."

Tyrion looked a little disappointed and his suspicion slightly returned. "Where did you hear it? I swore I invented that one."

Before the trial, Tiresias would have panicked at what he just let slipped. Now, in the lion's den, he merely shrugged as he set his wine down.

Probably not the best sign, mate.

"In the Vale. Sailor telling it was drowned out by the wind. You told it better."

Tiresias sipped his water cautiously. The servant had placed his utensils and goblet on his left side. His herbed lamb arrived already cut for him. Asides from the stifling fire, it made for a very comfortable dinner.

At least, it would have, if not for the company. Tywin Lannister sat across from him in silence, his eyes on his own meal. He had received the invitation an hour beforehand. Well, as much as it could be called an invitation. The nameless manservant from his first night approached him in the library and announced that he would join Lord Tywin for dinner. He walked away before Tiresias could recover enough to inquire why.

So far, the Lord of Casterly Rock hadn't yielded any clues. He greeted him when he arrived and that was the extent of the conversation so far. Based on the man's energy, it was down to the long-tried strategy of waiting for the other to speak.

However, Tiresias was in no mood to play. He finished his lamb before dabbing his mouth with the napkin.

"So, Lord Tywin, to what do I owe the pleasure of this invitation?"

His host waited to swallow, setting his knife and fork down before speaking.

"How goes your recovery?"

Tiresias eyed his arm, still in the splint. He hadn't felt any pain for the past sennight. His fingers in that hand were working again. He was actually able to write. Carefully and only for an hour, but still…

"It's going well, my Lord. According to Maester Creylen, it should only be a sennight until I can take this splint off. After another fortnight for the arm to strengthen, I will be deemed well enough to travel."

"Quite fortuitous," said Tywin. He sipped his water. "You've been spending a significant amount of your recovery with my son."

Using his bread to soak up the herbed butter, Tiresias nodded. "I have."

"You needn't indulge my son, Tiresias. I can't imagine inebriation is suitable for your recovery."

Tiresias breathed before answering. "Lord Tyrion has been very sensitive to my injury, my lord. I haven't been drunk yet in this place."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed. I actually rather enjoy his company, my Lord. Your son is courteous, clever and quite amiable." He bit off a small bit of the soaked bread. "You're very lucky. To have such an heir as him."

Counting to three before looking back up, he saw Tywin's jaw still set. Though the Lord was making an admirable effort to souse his temper.

Indeed, when he spoke, his voice was even.

"Tyrion is not my heir," he stated quietly.

Swallowing the bread, Tiresias gave a confused frown. "Forgive me, my lord. I must be confused. I had believed that Ser Jaime joined the Kingsguard and forsworn his inheritance. That leaves only…"

"When he is ready, he will take a hold suiting his position." Tywin met his frown with his fierce eyes. "But that position is not, nor shall it ever be, Lord of Casterly Rock."

Tywin held the stare and Tiresias decided to fold.

"I see," he said, going back to his meal.

He tried racking his brains for the past month what he even wanted from Tywin Lannister. What he should say. What path should he nudge him on? If he was even capable of doing so.

And ultimately, his mind came to a blank. He simply wanted to leave the Westerlands alive. That meant not pissing off the Warden of the West. Even if it also meant not standing up for Tyrion explicitly.

Oh Tywin…you and your son would have been such a force to be reckoned with. If only you had eyes in the present and not the thousand year legacy you dream of…

"You said you arrived in Westeros five years ago, yes?" asked Tywin, leaning back into his chair.

Tiresias swallowed some roasted potato. "Five and a half, more like, my Lord. I've been working at Winterfell for five."

"How did you come to be the librarian at Winterfell?"

It almost became a repeat of his dinner at the Dreadfort. He repeated his story of befriending a crannogman in Pentos. The recommendation from Lord Reed. Along with a dozen other details that wouldn't interest the Warden. Tywin fixed him with a stare unlike Lord Bolton's. While Roose's gaze was soft and sensitive to every detail of the story, Tywin's eyes bored into him. Challenging him to stick to the story. To tell the truth.

Tiresias breathed easy when he told it. Tywin was someone who stuck to the details of the highborn and treated the smallfolk as a monolith.

He's never met a stonemason and he's probably never bothered himself with the crannogmen of the Neck.

Soon his brief recounting was finished and Tywin reached for his goblet.

"If you and your family were nomads, how did your father support you?" he asked, taking a sip.

"We lived off the land, my Lord. Not the most stable upbringing, as you can imagine. We did hunt and traded the furs in the Free Cities we came across. We sang once in a while for pittance. But it was a poor existence."

"Are they alive?"

Tiresias shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "No, my family's dead, my Lord. They all died when I was about thirteen."

The Old Lion set his cup down, but he didn't offer any condolences. Tiresias didn't know whether he respected him more or less for that. He certainly wouldn't have meant them.

"How did you learn to read? Whilst living as a vagabond?"

He took a deep breath. "My mother taught me. If you must know."

"And how did she learn?"

Tiresias hoped this new detail wouldn't come back to bite him.

"She refused to say. But I have my suspicions," he said, lowering his eyes.

The fire crackled for a few seconds. Though Tywin remained silent, he could feel his challenging gaze upon him. He raised his head and answered it.

"We never went south to Volantis. And even when we entered the other Free Cities, my mother always remained outside the gates with our people. She covered her face and she was never comfortable until she was well away."

He raised a finger and brought it to his cheek. "She had a scar here. Quite a large one. Like she'd removed some skin. She had it as long as I could remember."

"Your mother was a slave."

There was no pity in Tywin's eyes, his voice was pragmatic as it ever was.

Tiresias shrugged. "She never said. I never asked. I never asked how she learned. Perhaps she served a wealthy merchant's daughter, and the girl thought it would be fun to play tutor to a slave. Maybe she overheard lessons, bit by bit. Maybe her former master thought she was intelligent and taught her himself, thinking he wouldn't have to pay for a bookkeeper."

He took a sip of his own wine. "It's something I've wondered for many years. Sometimes I regret not asking her. I try not to. It's lost to me and regret won't change that. All I know is one night by the fire, my mother took out a small tome and began to read to me, tracing her finger along the words. Night after night. And before she died, I could read better than her."

Making his eyes go soft whenever he lied was second nature to him by now. The story could be as long or as short as he wished. With any amount of detail. As long as he told it sincerely and succinctly.

And if he can't verify it, if he even can, it will do until I'm out of the Westerlands.

A small tinge of guilt bubbled up in him. Adopting a slave narrative for his own background, but it did place him in the deepest pits of obscurity. No one could account for it.

He returned to his meal and he heard Tywin do the same. Though he wasn't done with his questions.

"And after your people perished?" he heard Tywin ask, in between bites. "What did you do then?"

"I stayed out in the wild for a couple years." He breathed to fortify himself. "It was safer than being a young boy alone in a city, but eventually I made my way to Lorath. Became a dockworker for a year or so. Eventually I proved I could read and became a trade archivist for a velvet merchant. That worked for a few years until he died. It took nearly a year after, but I managed to save enough coin to buy passage to Pentos. I was there for a few years, working here and there. Until finally I met my friend from the Neck. He told me more of Westeros, I sailed here…"

He lowered his fork and leaned back. "And that was that."

Tywin gave him the briefest of glances before finishing off his dinner. After swallowing the last bite, he dabbed his mouth with his napkin and deposited it onto the table. He had barely leaned back against his own chair when the servant came to retrieve his plate.

"Do you know how to drive a wagon, Tiresias?"

He nodded, trying not to question the change in subject. "I do, my Lord."

"Will your horse deign to be hitched?"

Tiresias met the lord's eye. "Why would she need to be hitched?"

Tywin rapped the table lightly. "When you depart from Casterly Rock, you will be taking the eleven volumes of Old Tongue we have in the library. They will need adequate transport. I doubt your mare can carry them all in a satchel."

The crackle of the hearth filled the chamber as they regarded each other, Tiresias trying some way to phrase his burning question without sounding caught off-guard. The Old Lion seemed at ease, unhurried but he sensed his impatience. And so Tiresias waited.

Finally, Tywin reached for his goblet. "My son, whom you seem to have so much admiration for, has further educated me on your project back at Winterfell. Your work in curating the tomes of the Old Tongue throughout the North. And the adjoining kingdoms; the Riverlands and the Vale."

Tiresias nodded numbly. "We've talked at some length about that."

"Well, the tomes are doing no good here in the Westerlands. You will transport them to Winterfell. Store them. Fill up some of the empty space on your shelves."

He sipped his wine. Tiresias tried to look this gift horse in the mouth as gently as he could.

"That's quite generous of you, my Lord." He tapped his own goblet, but didn't lift it. "May I ask what you require in return?"

"Nothing," Tywin said lightly…well, as lightly as he could manage. "It's a donation. It's why you came to Casterly Rock of your own accord. It's why you stayed. You needed to recover enough to drive a wagon."

Tiresias exhaled through his nose. "Of my own accord?"

"It's what you'll say." The demand was softly spoken. "Is that too high a price?"

Tiresias took only a second before shaking his head. "No, I should say not."

"Then it's agreed." Tywin stood, his chair scrapping against the stone. "You'll meet the stablemaster tomorrow. He'll find you a suitable wagon to take."

Tiresias remained seated. "As I said, very generous of you, my Lord," he heard himself say. "I'll write up a receipt for the tomes."

"If you insist," Tywin stated curtly. The lord made to turn, but stopped himself.

"One more thing," he said. "It slipped my mind the first time we talked."

That was a lie. Tiresias thought the halt looked too practiced. Nevertheless he waited politely.

"Lord Lydden wrote of your choice of weapon. How you fastened a copper end to your spear and used it to disorient Ser Gregor. Striking his helm."

Tiresias nodded. "Aye."

"You stated you barely knew of Ser Gregor's reputation before you volunteered to fight him. How did you know he was so sensitive of hearing?"

Tiresias only allowed a second of hesitation before he answered.

"Outside of Deep Den, where I was camping, I sang a song. Another knight warned me to stop. That Ser Gregor was arriving and he despised singing. The knight went on to tell stories of Ser Gregor hating other loud noises, strangling a minstrel, a man who snored..."

What was the phrase again? The truth will set you free?

More helpful yet, a version of the truth will set you free.

"I've heard rumors of giant men being besieged by headaches. The price of towering above others. When Clegane arrived and I saw how truly massive he was, I made the connection. And so, when I volunteered with so few advantages on my end, I decided to take a chance and exploit that weakness."

He didn't offer any more explanation. It was a mistake to ramble on when one was done speaking.

Tywin's face was impassive. He couldn't see how the story settled with the Old Lion.

Probably not well. After all, if I saw how practiced his question was, could he see also the practice in my answer?

He wouldn't know tonight or probably before he left the Rock. If he could read Lord Tywin correctly, the topic was closed.

"The wagons are located in the third stable, in the northern bailey," he rumbled. "I'm certain my son could show you the way in the morning"

With further ado, Tywin turned on his heel and strode out of the dining room. The servant closed the door after him, standing back to attention.

He sat there for a few more minutes before getting up to head back to his own quarters. With Tywin's attempt to catch him in a lie, he briefly forgot that he now had eleven tomes to transport back to Winterfell, that he came to Casterly Rock on his own for the request. As was the story now.

Coming to the door, he paused and looked back at the servant, looking determinedly at the other wall.

"Well, you heard it first, I guess," he said. The servant's eyes went to him. "I traveled here of my own accord. Let no one say anything different, eh?"

The servant blinked at him a few times before going back to his spot on the wall. Tiresias sighed and left the hall. He changed his mind about going to bed. A map was in the library and he had a new date of arrival to estimate. It would take longer for him to reach Winterfell, strapping a wagon to his horse.

He hoped the poor animal would forgive him.

Tiresias sat, his impatience mounting as Maester Creylen tended to his arm. The whole day before had passed more slowly than any other in the Rock. Finally, this evening, his right arm would be his again.

Not entirely though. Creylen warned him several times that he should avoid strenuous activity for a fortnight afterwards. He couldn't head directly to the archery range to practice, dive off the cliffs into the sea or even do a single push-up and begin to rebuild his strength. He had to be gentle still.

However, that didn't dampen his spirits as Creylen unwrapped the splint. The maester tried to be gentle, but Tiresias didn't mind. All aches stopped a fortnight ago and he felt no discomfort as the splint was removed. Creylen took his arm, grasping it lightly and running his fingers along it. The sensation almost tickled him.

After a series of tests involving bending his fingers and rotating his wrist without pain, Creylen nodded.

"Everything seems to have healed well, Tiresias," he murmured softly before releasing the limb. "Congratulations. You have your arm back."

"Thank you, Maester," Tiresias said, his voice catching before he could help it. He swallowed. "I mean it, thank you."

"You're welcome," said the maester mildly. "But, remember…"

"No strenuous activity."

"For how long?"

"A fortnight."

"That's right." Creylen deposited the wraps in the laundry basket. "I'd also recommend a bath tonight. That arm needs a proper scrub. But gently so."

Tiresias took his advice. He didn't do so often over his time at the Rock, but tonight he requested a bath in his chambers. He soaped his arm thrice over, delighted at the simple pleasure of being able to actually submerge his arm in the water.

Standing by the window afterwards, he stood naked by the window, feeling the sea breeze. He lifted his arm and feel a coolness he had missed for months. The wind passed along, lifting the hairs on his arm. It was pure bliss. He even forgot where he was for a moment.

But it did come back. He was still in the lion's den, under close scrutiny.

Just a fortnight more, mate. Rest easy but keep alert. Just a little longer in this place.

He took a parting glance at Lannisport before going to bed. Tempted as he was to jump into the sheets, he lowered himself slowly onto the mattress with his left arm. No need to tempt fate now.