Chapter 37

The snow whirled around him gently, blinding him but he continued to trek. His boots were silent as they fell upon the path. He had come out of a castle…

No…a forest…

But when he looked back, nothing was there but the falling snow and so he kept moving into the oblivion. He wasn't cold though. He was never cold.

Eternity passed in a few seconds and he came to the end of his path.

He recognized the Wall, a barricade of blue and white. Soon he was directly before it. He reached out, putting his hand toward the ice. It was impossible but his palm chilled…

There was no end to it. Craning his neck, he couldn't see the top. The snow was too thick and it continued to fell…

"Caw! Caw!"

The raven's cry pierced the silence, faint but beckoning. He tore his eyes from the white void and began to follow the Wall. His hand brushed his side. His dagger was gone.

It was there in the Mountain's helm. He approached the giant corpse, armored and slumped against the ice. With an effort that nearly tore him away, he withdrew the dragonglass dagger and walked on.

The raven didn't call again, but still he walked along the Wall. Another eternity came and went. He passed the Mountain's corpse again and again and again, but he didn't panic. He was bound to run into it frequently.

A fire grew in the distance. The white void around him darkened as he approached and it was night when he reached the fire. The flames crackled in the silence and a rope creaked…

He looked up. Over the fire, the whore from Gulltown hung from a jutting iron beam from the Wall. Her skin was whiter than the snow falling next to her. The dress rustled softly in the wind. The dark red hair glowed deep from the fire.

It still framed the yellowed skull.

He looked back to the fire. It had risen to his eyeline…no…he had sat down. Cross-legged, arms folded. Here, he would wait.

For how long? He didn't know.

It didn't seem to matter. Eternities were commonplace in the everlasting winter…

"Caw caw! Caw!"

Away from the Wall…to the North, he looked. But it was dark now. And he couldn't trek there. Not yet…he had to see to this fire.

The rope creaked and the iron bar sang a low note. He looked back to the hanging whore.

The yellowed skull had eyes now. Clear, full of relief and a deathly emptiness. Rosie's eyes…but he had shut them…

Rosie shed a tear and it ran down the rotting bone…Flames flickered before him.

He looked down to see himself engulfed by the fire. It clothed him, but it didn't burn him. Didn't even warm him…

But it lit his way. Tearing away from the Wall and the hanging woman, he trekked north. Burning as he disappeared into the dark snowy night.

He saw himself as he did so. Out of the eyes of the yellowed skulls, he saw. A flame that walked toward the raven's cry…he tried to blink…

But he had no eyelids…

Tiresias opened his eyes in the darkness. It took a couple of blinks before he recognized his surroundings. The gray light of the predawn draped his room. He sighed and sank deeper into his pillow.

It wasn't the first time that Rosie appeared in his dreams. It had been a while for the Gulltown woman. Being on fire though…that was a new one.

He forced himself to remember Howland Reed's warning.

Don't lose yourself to dreams, man. You're not even a greenseer. And your knowledge of the future that was will lead you to certain images…

A yawn interrupted that train of sleepy thought. For that, he was grateful. Right now, he stood a somewhat decent chance of falling back asleep for an hour or two before he had to get up.

However, luck wasn't with him this predawn. After twenty or so minutes, he gave up and forced himself onto his feet. Then immediately to the floor for the morning stretches. As he reached for his foot, his eyes went to the hearth. His mind to the dream again as he became a flame. Fire bathing his whole body…

Tiresias snorted. Forget it, you jerk. You've pushed your luck enough already. Just be grateful for the busy day.

So he left the dream behind. After he finished stretching, he fetched a bow from the corner. It was purchased only a fortnight ago, newly forged from yew and in dire need of breaking in. In addition to frequenting the archery range, he had taken to oiling it every morning and evening. Bookmarks to begin and end his days.

As the smell of the oil filled his nostrils, he rubbed and bent the bow carefully. It would be quite lethal soon. In the meantime, he had plenty of other work to do. His mind went to the library, the training, an inch forward more toward the White Walkers, and a possible romantic, and private, outing this evening.

Stares still followed him in Winterfell. They had lessened in the past two months since he had returned, but were still present. He felt them upon his back. Hell, he saw them plainly in front of him. The inhabitants of the castle and town weren't shy.

Entering the smithy, he felt those stares as expected. They were accompanied by the sounds of hammers pausing, resting on the anvils. He strode forward, past all the apprentices to Mikken. The master blacksmith was bent over the billows, seeing to a split.

"Hello, Mikken!" Tiresias called over the noise.

"Oi yerself!" Mikken called back. He straightened up and his eyes fell behind the librarian. "What? You lads all done?"

The hammers fell again, hurried. Tiresias tried not to smirk.

Mikken turned to him. "What'd yeh need?"

He tapped the dagger on his side. "Hadn't been sharpened in a while. Can I borrow Gendry?"

Mikken nodded to the weapon. "'S what killed him, eh? The Mountain?"

Tiresias suppressed a sigh. "Aye, Mikken, you forged the blade which downed the Mountain."

He couldn't be sure that his voice didn't sound exasperated there. A ghost of a smile passed over the blacksmith's face though.

"Sure weren't the future I saw for that blade when I fixed it for yeh."

"Wasn't the future I saw, either," responded Tiresias, scratching his neck. "Can you spare Gendry? He sharpened it last time."

Any apprentice with six months under him could have done the job, but Mikken seemed to understand the sentiment. He turned to the back.

"Gendry!" he called.

Around the corner with a polished rag, Gendry came. His eyes met Tiresias' when he saw him. He nodded as the lad approached.

Gendry gave a very brief nod in return before turning to Mikken.

"Aye?"

The master blacksmith grimaced as he returned to his knees before the bellow.

"Take his knife. Man needs an edge again."

"Aye," said Gendry, before turning to Tiresias again. The librarian had already unsheathed his dagger. The lad took it gently.

"Here," he said, before walking off. Tiresias followed, feeling again the stares of the other apprentices. But the anvils still rung.

Gendry turned a corner in the smithy, picking out a whetstone from the walled shelf.

"No use using the wheel for this," he said, plopping the whetstone into a bucket of water. "This'll do quick."

"'S all right. No hurry from me."

Tiresias turned up an empty crate and sat against the wall, crossing his legs. He turned to the lad.

"How've you been, Gendry?"

He shrugged. "Good, I guess. It's cold, but it's good."

"How's Mikken?"

"He's good."

"Not as talented as Tobho Mott?"

Gendry glanced to the corner before shaking his head. Tiresias couldn't help a smirk.

"He's teaching me good though," Gendry claimed, seeing the smirk. The lad tapped the dagger. "He's does good work."

"Gendry, you keep saying nothing else but 'good' and you're going to drive me mad," Tiresias said lightly.

The threat was received as it was intended. Gendry snorted.

"You're the reader here. You know the fancy words." He reached in the bucket for the whetstone, shaking it before setting it on a cloth on the table. "I just know the metals."

He brought the dagger to the coarse stone and dragged it.

"Would you like to learn how to read?" asked Tiresias.

The scraping blade stopped as Gendry looked at him.

"What?"

"Would you like to learn how to read, Gendry? Learn the fancy words?"

"What for?"

Tiresias opened his ears up to the surrounding smithy. There was no one near them. Even if there were any eavesdroppers, they wouldn't be able to muster enough concentration to pierce through the hammering.

He returned to the lad. "Lord Stark told you who your father was, aye?"

Gendry glanced around before nodding. He turned back to the whetstone and continued to sharpen the blade.

A silence fell and Tiresias began to wonder if this was a mistake. He put aside his offer for the moment.

"How's that sitting with you?" he asked as gently as he could.

Gendry peered down the blade. "Don't know," he murmured. "Don't make much of a difference, does it?"

Tiresias shrugged. "Made me fetch you away from the capital. Away from the Queen and her reach."

And her own bastard son.

That stopped the sharpening. Gendry looked him dead in the eye.

"How'd you know? That I was…that I was his? I never knew."

Even though he expected this question, Tiresias hadn't come up with a satisfying answer. Possible retorts flew through his head, but all seemed inadequate or insulting on some level. Unlike Lord Stark, he had no reason to recognize the Baratheon traits in some random boy off the Street of Steel.

Gendry stood waiting for several beats while he contemplated. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"Someone pointed you out to me," he said. "We realized the danger there in King's Landing and decided to bring you north."

He shrugged. "I'm sorry if that's not a full answer, but it's all I'm prepared to say for now."

To his relief, the lad didn't seem offended. He returned to the dagger, running it along the whetstone.

"Does the King know of me?" Gendry asked, his eyes down.

Tiresias exhaled through his nose. "I think you already know the answer to that question. But if it makes you feel any better, he hardly knows his trueborn children either."

He willed himself not to smile grimly at the remark.

Robert Baratheon knows no trueborn children.

Turning the blade, Gendry got the other side.

"I dreamt of me mum the first night here," he murmured. "First time in a while. Don't remember much of her. She died when I was little. She was a tavern wench."

Tiresias remained silent.

"She had blonde hair," Gendry said, his voice still quiet. "And she sang. Can't remember how she sounded, but I know she sang to me. Guess most mums do."

"My mother read to me," Tiresias offered. "She didn't have much to sing about."

Gendry turned the whetstone over. "Well, mine didn't either. I keep thinking her older than she probably was. You know what I mean? 'Cept…she probably weren't much older than me…not more than eighteen, twenty…"

The blade remained poised on the whetstone while Gendry composed himself. Tiresias became very interested in the floor until he heard the dagger sharpening again.

"Is your mum dead too?" asked Gendry.

Tiresias nodded. "Aye. But I had a longer time with her than you did with yours. I'm sorry, Gendry that we couldn't get to you sooner."

Gendry shrugged. "It was all right for the most part. Master Mott was good to me."

He glanced to the librarian. "Who'd be teaching me to read? You?"

Tiresias shrugged. "Probably. I don't have much experience teaching, but Maester Luwin is busy with his other duties. Besides, you're a bastard blacksmith. There's some decorum we need to follow."

Gendry looked to the other end of the shop. "Will you be teaching the other blacksmiths how to read?"

"I hadn't considered it."

Finished with the dagger, Gendry gave it a careful wipedown.

"I'm already an outsider here," he said. "From the south, witness to the big duel. Why do you think I haven't told anyone I'm a King's bastard? How'd you think it'll look if I start getting private lessons from you?"

"You'll probably eat some shit," Tiresias replied frankly. "You might face some jealousy and resentment from the others. Is that all that's keeping you back from learning how to read?"

Gendry shot him a look; frustration clear in his eyes. Tiresias sighed.

"Look, you don't have to answer right away," he said. "Think on it, but please make a choice. Lord Stark hasn't heard from you since he's told you the truth. We're willing to help you, whether it's through literacy or soldiering. But you have to make the choice to let us help."

The dagger was done. He stood and took the weapon from Gendry. They regarded each other for a beat, before he looked over the blade.

"You do good work, Gendry," he said, sheathing the dagger. "If you wish to remain a blacksmith, that's an honorable way to live. But you could be a literate smith who can wield the steel he crafts. It's not impossible and you certainly deserve to learn. Despite what the King, the highborn or your fellow apprentices may say."

Gendry's eyes had lowered to the ground by this point.

"So, think on it. But only a little more, aye?"

The boy nodded.

Tiresias raised his eyebrows. "You could look me in the eyes when you agree to something, can't you?"

Through only a slight effort, Gendry met his gaze.

"Aye, I'll think on it."

He clapped the boy's shoulder. "Good. I'll let you get back to the others. Thanks for the touch-up."

"Touch-up?"

Resisting the urge to grimace, Tiresias waved it away. "Never mind."

Thankfully he heard another distraction coming his way. She was trying to sneak around to the shelf of whetstones from the other side of the wall. She paused now, trying to stay still, but Tiresias still smelled her.

He turned to the shelf. "Hello, Little Underfoot. Can we help you with something?"

Gendry followed his gaze. They only waited a short beat before hearing a frustrated groan. Arya came around the corner, glaring at Tiresias.

He returned her glare with a smile. "That was good. You're getting quieter."

"Not quiet enough," she said, though her glare was fading fast. "How'd you know? I held my breath and everything."

Tiresias shrugged. "Your stink."

She frowned. "I don't stink."

"Aye, you do. So do I. So does Sansa and Jon and your father and everyone else. Everybody has a stink." He nodded toward Gendry. "So does he. Have you two met? Gendry, Arya Stark. Arya, Gendry."

The young blacksmith looked content to disappear. However he held his ground and nodded politely to Arya. "M'lady."

"Do not call me m'lady!" Arya exclaimed. She then looked to Tiresias. "What are you laughing at?"

Tiresias had brought his hand to his mouth, covering his growing grin.

"Nothing. Nothing," he said blithely. Taking a deep breath, he looked to her. "Do you need something, Arya?"

Her flash of indignation passed, she nodded up to the shelf. "My arrowheads are getting dull. I need to borrow one of those."

"You've been shooting arrows for years. Don't you have a whetstone by now?"

"Jon always sharpened them for me. I want to do it myself now."

Tiresias raised his eyebrows. "Do you know how?"

She shrugged. "I watched him do it a few times."

"All right then. Which stone here is the best one for arrowheads?"

Arya's silence was her answer. He turned to Gendry, who had been standing stock still since his address to the little lady.

"Gendry, why don't you show her which stone to use and how to use it?"

The lad looked from Arya to him with a growing apprehension. "Tiresias…" He lowered his voice. "She's the Warden's daughter…"

"I'm well aware of that," Tiresias responded lightly. "I'm sure that Lord Stark would appreciate someone showing his daughter how to safely sharpen her arrowheads."

He shrugged. "Or better yet, just not say anything on the matter."

To that, Gendry sighed and turned back to Arya. "You don't have an arrowhead on you, do you?"

Arya shook her head.

"All right, then. Wait here. I'll be back." Gendry walk past her to fetch one. Arya turned her head, following him.

"Gendry," Tiresias called. The lad stopped and turned. "I'll hear from you later, aye? Whatever you decide."

Gendry nodded and exited. Arya turned back to him.

"What was that about?"

"Something between Gendry and myself." He smirked. "Though I'm sure if you came sneaking around earlier, you might have overheard something."

"No one else hears me!" Arya exclaimed. "How do you?"

He dropped his smirk immediately. It was never a good idea to belittle a child's frustration. Arya wanted a clear answer and he thought fast, trying to think of a suitable one.

Finally he shrugged. "The gods blessed me with keen senses, Arya. I've spent years in the wilderness in Essos. I learned to use them. I know practice is never the fun answer, but that's essentially what happened."

And a dose of the supernatural to help it along.

Arya peered at him; her frustration gone. "Can I learn to use them too? Can you teach me?"

Tiresias contained a grimace. "It's not something I know how to teach. Perhaps…perhaps when you're older, you may go to other instructors in these matters."

You're certainly too young to go to Braavos. Besides…without tragedy, will you be spurred to the Faceless Men?

Continuing to peer at him, Arya narrowed her eyes. "What other instructors?"

"I tell you when you're older," Tiresias stated, allowing a little sternness into his tone. Then he slipped a little teasing. "Today, why don't you let the handsome young blacksmith teach you how to sharpen your arrows."

The teasing found its mark. Arya scrunched her face. "He's not handsome."

"Fine, he's very cute."

"Shut up!"

Laughing lightly, Tiresias took his leave, walking past her.

"I'll see you tomorrow in the library, Arya. Don't cut yourself today."

Tiresias exited the smithy, just as Gendry returned with the arrowhead. As he headed back to the Great Keep, his conversation with the lad supplanted the light teasing of Arya. His smile dropped as he walked through the courtyard.

A part of him tried to resist imagining that conversation as a precursor for speaking to Jon Snow about his parentage. He was grateful for some practice, for lack of a better word, but that would be a whole other animal.

The two boys were similar in some respects, besides the hidden royal lineages. Both carried chips on the shoulder. Feelings of inadequacy. Hard workers each of them.

But to dwell on the similarities wouldn't help much. Jon Snow's realization of his parentage…well, he didn't know. All he did know was he would have to handle it differently from how he handled Gendry's.

Lost in his head as he contemplated the boy's eventual revelation, Tiresias didn't even notice a horse cantering behind him into the courtyard. Or the excited yells from the keep.

"Uncle Benjen! Uncle Benjen!"

Shaking himself from the thought, he saw the said subject of his musings, Jon Snow plus Robb as they raced past him from the Great Keep to greet their uncle. He turned to see Benjen quickly dismounting from his horse. He caught them in fierce hugs and ruffled their hair. Arya came bolting from the smithy, having heard her brothers, wrapping her arms around Benjen's hip.

Tiresias ran his gaze over him. His face carried a few more scars. His hair was going grey faster than Ned's. Once he released his nephews and niece, he saw the hilt of the dragonglass dagger on his belt. He still had it…

Though he wasn't pretending not to look, he still felt caught when Benjen, whilst glancing around the courtyard, met his eye. They regarded each for a brief second, before Tiresias nodded. Benjen didn't return the nod, but he saw the message clear enough in his eyes.

We'll speak later.

Which suited Tiresias just fine. He turned and left Benjen to the attention of Robb, Jon and Arya as they escorted him into the keep.

He didn't see Benjen again until that evening. Per usual, Lord Stark barely made a fuss over his younger brother's visit. He simply sat him at his side and he was questioned incessantly by the children. If Tiresias concentrated, he could hear the inquiries from here.

However he allowed the Starks their privacy and kept his ears to himself, happy to keep dinner a muted affair for him and Barth. Thankfully no house guard or soldier approached him this evening and ask for a full recounting of the Mountain's demise. The stares were there though. But they could be easily ignored.

He didn't ignore all of them though. From his point in the hall, he could see the adjoining hallway. A welcome scent reached him and he raised his eyes to catch Mal's gaze as she entered down the hall.

A small sly smile worked its way onto her face, but she didn't join his table. This was a courtship that would be best underplayed. They didn't say so but they both knew it to be true. Looks were exchanged in passing. Brief touches were savored. Outings were requested primly and conducted properly.

Once alone, they could talk, touch or be silent together. Some evenings, she would come to his room. She would bring her work, sitting in front of the fire, embroidering or stitching. Her silver thimble gleamed in the firelight. And if he focused, he could hear the needle hitting the fine metal on her thumb.

That was a distraction though. A good one, but a distraction still. He focused on his desk, where he would read, write and plan. They labored together against the sounds of the crackling fire and the billows of the wind hitting the castle.

It didn't go further than that. Though they weren't prudes, it was less than a month into the relationship. However, more than once he felt her eyes on him. When he turned and met them, he caught her thinking about him and the first night she came to his room. He didn't have to ask. He could simply tell. She didn't hide it. Ofttimes, she would meet his gaze evenly, smile knowingly, then return to her work.

They had their first true kiss a week prior. Not in the room though. It was outside, just before dinner. It was a rare cloudless sunset and the sky was pink against the crisp, cold weather.

It wasn't overly romantic. He was walking to the stores, looking for some ropes to replace the one in his gym. The sounds of the forge and stables echoed in the background as Tiresias saw Mal approaching with a bundle in her arms from the stores. Cloths for the next day's work.

"Tiresias," she greeted shortly as she came near, eyes still ahead of her.

He looked down the way and back quickly. No one else was in the small entryway.

"Mal?"

She stopped and faced him. "Aye?"

He swallowed a bit.

"I'd like to kiss you now. Can I?"

As talented as Mal was with a needle, she was even more skilled with shielding her surprise. Nevertheless, Tiresias heard her heartrate shoot up as she regarded him.

"All right," she said, holding her cloths still, her brown eyes boring into him.

He stepped forward and kissed her, holding her face gently with one hand. It was brief and her mouth opened on the last second before he pulled away.

They stood quiet for a beat, before Tiresias nodded.

"See you tonight?"

Mal shrugged. "Perhaps." She nodded. "Librarian."

"Seamstress."

With that, she walked away. It took Tiresias a couple of minutes to remember what he came for.

That night and every night after, they ended their evenings with a kiss when she departed. Both wanted to go further. But they wanted to wait more. A part of them knew it was absurd. She'd seen him undressed. They wished to marry. It wouldn't have mattered.

But that was not what he wanted nor did she. They didn't discuss it. They just knew it. How they greeted. How they left. How they sat in silence.

And so, in the Great Hall, they exchanged their looks, the silent promise kept and she proceeded to her own spot across the hall.

Tiresias returned to his table and the ever-silent Barth; whose eyes were firmly on his plate. He took a bite, chewing slowly. It was a full minute before he asked.

"How long have you known?"

Barth looked at him and shrugged. "Couple years ago."

Tiresias snorted lightly. "Took my time, didn't I?"

"Yeh can't hurry a heart. Or a brew."

Their usual comfortable silence was replaced with a bewildered one as Tiresias regarded the brewer. Finally he shook his head.

"I can't decide if that's wise sentiment or not."

Barth took a draught. "Thought yeh knew better than to make small talk."

That brief exchange saw more words than in the past month combined. And so they kept to their meals. Tiresias soaked the last of his broth with his bread when he heard approaching footsteps. He turned around to see Hals approaching him.

"Hello, Hals."

The portly manservant stopped before him. "Hello, Tiresias. Lord Stark requests your presence in his solar after supper."

He glanced up at the high table to see Ned watching him. Right next to him, Benjen Stark was looking his way as well.

Not needing to ask the purpose of such a summon, Tiresias agreed to come to the solar, facing Barth again as Hals walked off. He didn't want to risk repeatedly glancing back at the high table. Though that habit that died many years ago, in his first few months at Winterfell.

Thankfully, he was done with his meal. After draining the last of his ale, he stood and walked out of the hall. He walked a little slower than usual, expecting a familiar step to fall beside him.

Sure enough, Mal came up, her face forward. "Librarian."

"Seamstress." He didn't bother to look around. There was nobody else in the corridor. "You shouldn't come tonight. I have to speak with Lord Stark. Not sure how long I'll be."

"Fair enough. I've an arm pattern to plan." Reaching out, she took his hand. "Tomorrow, then?"

He squeezed it back before letting go. "Aye, barring any tragedy."

That got a light smirk out of her before she turned off, heading back to her quarters. Tiresias continued to walk, trying to breathe away a growing tightness in his chest.

Focus, man. You'll have plenty of time for that. Tonight is for the Wall.

That evening, the guards were absent as Tiresias approached the solar. A tinge of apprehension pulsed through him as he slowed his step. But as he came to the door, he heard Benjen speaking, smelled Lord Stark's scent. He supposed the absence of the guards was an excuse to give the Warden and his brother some privacy.

As well as not put any eyes on me joining this meeting. As long as Hals remains discrete.

He knocked.

"Come in," called Lord Stark. He creaked open the door to find the Warden and his brother by the fire, mugs in hand. Tiresias closed the door and walked over, nodding to the pair.

"Lord Stark. Evening, Benjen."

Benjen nodded back. It wasn't the first time they had met since Benjen had smuggled Tiresias past the Wall. The youngest Stark brother had visited Winterfell at least once a year. But they never spoke. Any news from the Watch or beyond the Wall was told to Ned, who then passed it on. Usually they merely exchanged a nod and a handshake if proximity called for it. There was no reason for anything else.

He had never been called to a private discussion between the Stark brothers before. And so he stood quietly, waiting to hear of the special occasion.

The Warden stood, gesturing to Tiresias. "Grab yourself a chair. Ale?"

Tiresias shook his head. "Thank you, but no. I take some water if you don't mind."

He grabbed a light chair from the side and settled in as he was handed a full cup.

Sitting back in his chair, Lord Stark turned to Benjen. "You want to tell him what you told me?"

His brother nodded. "Aye," he said, before looking to Tiresias. He regarded the librarian a little differently than the last time he visited Winterfell. He could see the buried question in his eyes. He recognized it. Grown used to it in the past few months.

However, Benjen suppressed his curiosity and launched into matters of true importance.

"The situation at Castle Black is growing more and more tense. My talks with the wildlings…the Free Folk…the Lord Commander's been good to keep them quiet, keep them to the officers, make it clear it's no surrender, just parley…but rumors have trickled down. Some of them false. Some of them true."

Tiresias sipped his water. More to do something than out of actual thirst.

"And what's true?" he asked quietly.

"The ranges have been cut down. Limited to the Haunted Forest." Benjen scratched his beard and shot Tiresias a pointed look. "Craster's death eliminated our outpost. We can't range from there no more."

Tiresias couldn't tell if Benjen was happy about that or not. He didn't have time to decide before the ranger continued.

"Qhorin Halfhand essentially lives in the forest now. He returned from the Frostfangs six months ago, with the same message I received from my wildling contact. Mance Rayder was coming."

"He met Mance Rayder?" Tiresias asked.

Benjen shook his head. "No," he murmured. "When the time came, we rode out to meet him. The Lord Commander, I and Qhorin, along with a few trusted men.

"But he wasn't there. My contact met me there instead, a wildling chieftain named Dim Dalba. Mance sent him as an emissary."

Tiresias forced himself to take a sip of water.

"I suppose you know my next question," he said.

Benjen sighed. "Mance had to ride out for the Valley of Thenn. He won't be back for a year at most. So…ten months from now."

"Was it the White Walkers?" Tiresias asked.

"Dim Dalba didn't say, but probably." Benjen stretched his legs. "In any case, he gave me another message. The Free Folk are going to begin traveling south, en masse."

Lord Stark stared at Benjen. "Are they coming to the Wall?"

His brother shook his head. "Not yet. Lord Commander told them no wildling encampments within thirty miles of the Wall. No sense coming near Castle Black, spooking the Night's Watch. Dim Dalba seemed amiable to that, agreed to pass on the message. We rode home shortly after."

"How many men were with this Dim Dalba?" Lord Stark asked.

"More than what showed themselves," Benjen said, lifting his mug.

The fire crackled as Benjen drained his ale against the silence. When he lowered his tankard, Tiresias caught the weariness in his eyes. It reminded him of his face when he rescued Jon, sacrificed himself. He looked so tired…

"A fortnight hadn't passed since our return when the rumors of wildling camps came to our ears from the ground up. We expected them, but these rumors ran rampant, saying we're surrendering our territory, that they'll camp out right outside the gate. Alliser's been badgering the Lord Commander to lead a force out and destroy any fledging camps before they take root and grow.

"Fortunately, the Lord Commander's been able to quell such ideas. The Haunted Forest is too vast and we too few." Benjen looked to Tiresias. "How many wildlings did you say there were?"

He shrugged. "Over a hundred thousand. If they're all still alive."

Benjen turned to Ned. "Not as few as I thought, but the answer's the same. We're better off staying at the Wall and letting the cold take them. That's the official position."

"Is Ser Alliser Thorne taking that well?" Tiresias asked.

"Does Ser Alliser take anything well?" A ghost of a grin came over Benjen's face as he asked. "The rumors of the wildling encroachment are spurring high emotions. The Lord Commander, he's somewhat protected. Nobody thinks he'll let them through. But me…I've gotten my share of dirty looks, being called wildling-lover. As First Ranger, I've been asked how we could parlay, what those filthy fucking barbarians could possibly offer us…"

An anxiety pinched Tiresias throughout. The Night's Watch had no qualms taking the life of an errant black brother, seen to be too friendly with wildlings.

"Soon," Tiresias muttered. "Castle Black may be as dangerous to you as the Haunted Forest. Maybe more so."

"Maybe," Benjen dismissed. "But for now, it's fine. No one has accused me openly as collaborating with the enemy and even though the rumors grow with a speed I detest, another story follows it. The White Walkers and their ilk."

Tiresias leaned forward. "How many believe it?"

Benjen shot him a sardonic look. "Well, we haven't exactly taken a poll, have we? It's not just me though. The tensions rising at the Wall...a few may believe in the White Walkers, but most are just in disagreement over how to handle the wildlings."

At the sight of Tiresias raising his eyebrows, Benjen amended his thought.

"Well, more than a disagreement, I know…as I said, tensions are rising."

"Mance Rayder must know what he's stirring by sending all the wildlings down south," Lord Stark offered, hands folded as he pondered. "If he's ordered them to do so and he neglected the initial meeting, an opportunity to smooth over this migration…then the situation beyond the Wall must really be dire."

Benjen put down his tankard and leaned forward elbows on his knees.

"Dim Dalba passed on another message from Mance Rayder," he said, looking to his brother. "Mance requested, that when he comes down again in ten months or sooner, that in addition to the Lord Commander, you also be there."

Lord Stark took the news well, sighing quietly only once before nodding. "Makes sense. If they're going to pass through, they'll want a guarantee that they won't be slaughtered when they enter the North."

Benjen nodded before turning to Tiresias.

"He's also asked for Tiresias of Winterfell."

That was something that the Warden of the North didn't expect. Ned looked between Tiresias and his brother.

"What?"

Tiresias felt his surprise slipping away but he didn't have to answer. Benjen did that for him.

"Mance has asked for your presence as well," he said, continuing to look at him. "He wants to meet the foreigner who gifted them the first dragonglass, who knew of his plans to unify the Free Folk, who knew their numbers…and who killed Craster."

Dropping his eyes to his cup, Tiresias saw the water barely trembling in his grip. He took another sip before asking.

"Did Dim Dalba mention that last bit in front of the Lord Commander?"

Benjen sighed through his nose. "Unfortunately, yes." He gave a humorless laugh. "Say this about the Free Folk. Honest as the night is long. No time for festering horseshit in all that cold."

Leaning back into his chair, Benjen dropped any humor. "The Lord Commander didn't mention you as we rode back, but all the same…I wouldn't go to Castle Black again. Not without my Warden brother."

"When we arrive there in ten months," Tiresias muttered. It seemed only yesterday that he snuck past the Wall and killed Craster, met Karsi…but it had been years.

However long, it still feels too soon.

"Exactly," said Benjen. He turned to Ned. "So you'll come then?"

Lord Stark nodded. "Aye…aye, I'll come."

"Good." Benjen nodded himself, trying to think. "I'll make sure we're only a short ride north of the Wall next time. We won't risk your safety."

A small smile escaped the Warden. "We'll be beyond the Wall, Benjen."

"Aye, aye, I know." Benjen waved his hand. "You damn well know what I mean."

"Aye, brother. I do." Lord Stark turned to Tiresias. "And you?"

Tiresias met the Warden's eyes, swallowing the question. He knew what he was being asked.

"I suppose I'll be there as well, barring any tragedy."

"What tragedy?"

"Hopefully none at all." Tiresias drained his water, turning to Benjen. "Is there anything else?"

Benjen shook his head.

"Then may I be excused, Lord Stark? I'm very tired."

The Warden nodded and Tiresias stood, still feeling Benjen's eyes on him, his question. He was halfway to the door when he decided to voice it.

"Tiresias."

He turned to Benjen, as open as he possibly could be.

"Aye?"

"Did you really kill Gregor Clegane?"

His eyes strayed to the Warden. Ned shot him a tired mix of a grimace and amusement. He returned to the First Ranger.

"Aye, strangely enough." He nodded to Lord Stark. "You can badger him for the details. He heard it all from the only other witness."

Ned's eyes remained amused, but Tiresias saw a little betrayal in his eyes as he turned and exited the solar. The castle was still bustling as he returned to his room. It wasn't that late. He was glad for it. Plenty of time to read, to oil the new bow. He had ten months to break it in before setting out for the Wall again.