Chapter 48

Johann stepped off the plank easily and made his way to the seawall from the pier, sidestepping merchants and sailors.

The Dornish raised quite a ruckus when they had arrived back in White Harbor to sail. Prince Oberyn, once again, declined the invitation from Lord Manderly to host them before they set sail. He was eager to hear the full story of the Mountain's death. Or perhaps he just wanted to flee the cold as quickly as possible.

Whatever the reason, Tiresias was grateful. It may have offended the obese lord, but it had given Lord Manderly and his soldiers little opportunity to learn his face. And under a medium sized beard and the blue cloak that the librarian kept packed away when he traveled with Prince Oberyn, Johann entered the city of White Harbor with little scrutiny.

Before turning onto the mainway, he turned back at the sea wall, gazing to the south and then the east. It had only been two and a half months since he left Winterfell. He departed Dragonstone without reaching a formal agreement with Lord Stannis about reviving the dragonglass trade. Fleeing to avoid a strong invitation flying from King's Landing. All on the word of the Red Woman.

Did she lie to him? He couldn't tell and that scared him. He could always tell with everyone. Their bodies gave it away. That and his knowledge attained from impossible means. But as wary as he was, Melisandre seemed sincere. And she was against the Night King. He knew that. At the end, she was an ally and brought fire to Winterfell.

But being allies with a fanatic is a dangerous route. She can't be brought into this with too much influence. For now, we must make our own fire.

And if he wasn't going to get Winterfell involved with Melisandre at the moment, then there was no way he was going to involve even more fanatics. An entire house of them.

As much as he wished to know why Jaqen H'ghar was in the cells of the Red Keep at the beginning of the story, he had no regrets leaving the House of Black and White where he had found it across the canal. Besides there was no guarantee that the man would actually be there. Or that it was even the same Jaqen H'ghar who gave Arya the Braavosi coin in the first place.

Perhaps he would go to King's Landing in a few years and ask him. It made him laugh, but he was sure that Robert's invitation would stand until then. The King's curiosity was too strong.

A part of him did regret though, looking at the House for as long as he did. Despite being across the sea, he still shivered when he thought back on that empty street, certain that someone had been watching them. That they saw right through him as Melisandre did.

The hairs on his neck stood up and Tiresias froze. He wanted to excuse it. It was just a remnant of the fear he felt in Braavos, but no…no, someone was watching him here as well. In White Harbor…

Turning back as naturally as he could, he scanned the crowd of uncaring, busy faces that bustled about, back and forth. He looked for stillness, for eyes hurriedly turning away, but there were too many. Too many voices, too many heartbeats.

Not wanting to stand exposed like an idiot, he proceeded on the main thoroughfare, with the crash of the waves and the calls of seals echoing behind him. He walked decisively but not quickly, casting his ears behind him, trying desperately to hear any following footfalls, halting sporadically to hide as they tailed him. But nothing came to him.

He didn't want to leave the city. Not right now. And though he didn't want to give any more opportunities to be recognized, he compromised and left the thoroughfare, seeking out an inn a few streets in. The sounds of the main street faded quickly, but even with this new quiet, Tiresias didn't hear anything that didn't quite belong.

Stepping in an alley, he leaned against the wall and breathed, holding and releasing it slowly. Once his pulse calmed, he abandoned subtlety and peered out around the corner. A cobbler hammered a sole. He smelled the moisture from a freshly hung line of laundry. The pedestrians of the thoroughfare walked in the distance; their noises faded. And no one glanced at the hooded, bearded fellow peering down the way.

Tiresias slumped back against the wall and sighed. He was so sure that eyes had settled on him in the harbor. But whoever had spotted him was gone now. And if they were going to try to get him later, it was better to be in an inn and have a door for a barricade. As he did in the Lonely Hills.

Not that he needed an excuse to find an inn. He disembarked from the ship late in the day. The night colored the sky as he looked to the east in the harbor. He wandered in the northern part of the city and found an establishment quickly. A hanging blue crab adorned the entrance.

The innkeeper eyed him silently as he entered. Suspicion colored his face. Realizing his hood was still up, Tiresias lowered it.

"Evening," he said in his most disarming and quiet tone. Along with his vague Westerosi accent for good measure. "Need a room for the night."

"One grout," the innkeeper replied brusquely. "Halfgrout extra for a meal and bath."

As much as Tiresias didn't want to risk the vulnerability of bathing, a week's sail left a stink on him and a wash was needed. He passed over the coppers to the innkeeper, who took it albeit the look of suspicion remaining on his face. Although Tiresias attributed that to the disarming tone rather than his accent. After all these years in Westeros, he still walked too casually for a common man.

Pocketing the coppers, the innkeeper handed him a key. "You got a name?"

"Johann."

And so Johann would disappear, heading west from White Harbor. After appearing from the docks in Braavos. As he trudged up to his room, he wondered how long it would take for Varys to hear of his alternate name. He had no doubts that the Spider was keeping an eye on him. Probably since he left Casterly Rock. Still, he didn't sense any eyes in Winterfell.

He didn't sense any here either. As he shut the door to his room, dropped the rucksack and breathed, he felt no mysterious eyes on him. He was wonderfully alone. And the door would protect him tonight.

Removing the blue cloak, he wrinkled his nose. He truly did stink.

Traveling west along the White Knife was a slow affair without a horse. Tiresias valued his time, but he didn't feel like riding. Handling an animal would take his eyes and ears off his surroundings. To sense any more mysterious eyes watching him.

To be fair, when he exited the Blue Crab at White Harbor, he didn't detect any onlookers noting his departure. It was an effort to walk normally while he listened, but as he reached the city gates and began to travel along the river, there were no footsteps that persisted amongst the sounds of nature. Besides his own.

Around midday, when the morning mist finally dissipated, he stopped looking to his rear for any followers. There was no one behind him. As for ahead of him though…

Tiresias didn't know why he avoided using Roose's name. Even in his own mind. It was a silly notion. If there was any danger directed at him in the North when he was traveling alone, Lord Bolton would be behind it. He wondered if his hunters saw him traveling south to White Harbor with the Dornish and cursed Prince Oberyn for foiling their plans.

Now he was alone. With naught but his dagger and arrows for protection. Assuming that there was a welcome waiting for him, that the hunters stayed for his return.

He scanned the trees as he passed them, opened his nose to any unpleasant smell of a long-camped individual, any noise that did not belong…

It's a safe assumption, mate. Locke is certainly tenacious enough. Man went beyond the Wall for Lord Bolton. And he already failed to capture you once. He's not going to incur Bolton's wrath a second time. He'll hunker down for the long winter if he has to.

Hyperbole, perhaps. Nevertheless, Tiresias kept quiet and walked cautiously. If the pair of eyes he felt in the harbor was a scout and they scurried out of the city to meet him on the road, then he would have to play this very carefully.

As the sun began to set, he found his anxiety rising to a pitch. There was no inn around. When he laid down to sleep, he would be vulnerable. Would they come then? Was that their plan all along? To just wait for him to shut his eyes…

He stopped walking and took a sip of water, willing himself to calm.

Think, man. Think…think like a practical hunter. A sadistic one, sure. But practical…what would you do?

Whenever he hunted in the Wolfswood, it was always far easier to let the animal approach and enter his range before firing an arrow. If he was merely going to be killed, he probably would have been attacked by now. But Lord Bolton wanted more from him. He wanted answers. He wanted pain. So the librarian of Winterfell must be taken alive.

And if Locke was instructed to bring him to the Dreadfort alive, it was a lot easier to let him walk part of the way on his own, rather than dragging him in chains the whole way.

Tiresias eyed the river. He wished he knew this area of the North better. Whether there was a road that broke off from the White Knife early that headed to the Dreadfort. He was sure there was. And it would be before that point that he would be ambushed. Would that be this evening? Should he risk sleep?

That was a dumb question. Of course he had to. How could he function otherwise? Be prepared to strike back?

Not willing to repeat his mistake when he was hunted before, he urinated off the road and proceeded another quartermile. In the twilight, his eyes were quite good. Waiting until he came upon some dry ground, he ventured off into the forest and found a suitable tree. It wouldn't be a comfortable rest, but as he climbed up and settled across a large branch, he could regain some strength. He wouldn't wake up useless.

Still, he couldn't help but think how much softer the ground was.

He slept in trees the following two nights, after two long days of strained listening and cautious travel. There was an ache in his back that deepened after each night and he stopped to stretch it out every hour or so. Last night, he went to sleep feeling both more anxious and more relaxed about his circumstances. It was not a good combination. He didn't like that he was becoming complacent. Quite a few times yesterday, he realized with a jolt that he hadn't been listening carefully to the road ahead, looking for any hiding places, sniffing for strangers. Not for an hour or so.

Where was the cutoff for the Dreadfort? Where was the point of no return when they couldn't get him?

Right before the fields that surround Winterfell, probably.

That thought depressed him, but he couldn't indulge it. This was the point. It was a good guess that Locke knew that he was suspicious, that he would be taking his time, on the lookout. By delaying the capture a few days out of White Harbor, Bolton's hunter hoped to catch him relaxed and off guard. He wouldn't allow it.

He breathed and exhaled slowly, to the tune of the river. The surrounding area was more familiar to him and he knew that the next turn would take him true north, out of sight of the White Knife for a good day or so. Checking for any watching eyes, he filled his waterskin in the river. After that, he removed his boots, settled down on the bank and dipped his feet carefully in the water.

The late afternoon sun was just beginning to shine brightly on the current. Tiresias pulled out some jerky and chewed slowly, flexing his feet back and forth in the cool water. Ginn may have given birth by this point. He hoped she was all right. That she and Gord were happy. He wondered if any ravens arrived from Dragonstone, inquiring about his sudden disappearance. Whether Stannis received any grief from his brother, Robert, having not brought the Mountainfall to court.

Tiresias sighed at that. As much as he wished never to go to King's Landing again, he knew it was inevitable at some point. And when he did, chances are he would not be permitted the same anonymity he enjoyed last time.

He supposed it all depended on Robert's response to what Stannis relayed to him. Enough time had passed that he suspected a raven or two to have arrived from the capitol. Would the North have to split its forces? Men at the Neck and at the Wall?

And the western coastline. Can't forget that. Even with Theon as hostage, the Iron Islands could still take advantage. Balon may be dead, but other Ironborn could share his dismissal of the ward's life.

Taking his feet out, he placed them on a rock, letting them dry in the sun. He looked east, where the sky was beginning to darken.

Yara was still there. And though he didn't inquire Theon about it, he knew that a few ravens have flown between Winterfell and Pyke over the years. Not an abundant amount, but Theon at least knew his sister better than he did when he arrived in Pyke. In the other future. An attack from the Iron Islands seemed less likely.

As for tensions from King's Landing…well, nothing seemed to have reached here yet. There were no passing mentions of war in White Harbor. No urgency in the streets. And here on the riverbank, it was remarkably peaceful…

Tiresias turned to the woods, staring into the brush. He became complacent again. Unguarded against those who wished him harm. The river mostly deafened him, but he remained turned to the forest for a few minutes, trying to see anyone hiding, peering out from behind a tree.

Finally, he turned back, not quite satisfied, and pulled his boots back on, strapping them tight. With everything assembled, he continued along the river's path, taking the next turn and headed north. After a few minutes, the waters of White Knife were muted and his ears opened truly to the forest. A robin sang to the east. He sniffed the air. There was no one else here.

Still he trudged carefully. The light through the trees dimmed considerably as he walked. The dark of night was no great obstacle to him. He saw rather well. But he couldn't help the dread that trickled through him. Darkness meant that soon he had to find a relatively safe place to sleep. Something that became more heart-pounding night after night.

Last evening, he had to talk himself into closing his eyes.

However, almost immediately, the light before him swelled. The trees more spaced, he found himself coming to a clearing. Tiresias recognized the meadow and sighed in relief. He would have a little more sun before the day ended.

The path that led from the forest cut through the meadow to the trees on the other side. A clearing of high grass that moved gracefully with the wind. Beneath the wind, he heard the robinsong from behind him. The buzzing of insects to his sides. He turned to the north, where the wind flew. The mountains in the distance caught the beginning red of the setting sun. Stretching his hand, he felt the wind grace his fingers. Turning back to the west, he faced the trees he trudged towards, where darkness awaited him again.

A bird's call echoed from the awaiting forest.

It was only through pure instinct that Tiresias didn't stop immediately. But he certainly slowed his step. That bird call…it sounded like a mimic. A good mimic. But it was no bird he ever heard before…

After a few more seconds, he slowly came to a halt. His hand moved automatically and uncorked his waterskin. Lifting it up, he took a measured sip and turned north again, sideface to the forest beyond where he heard the mimicked bird call. He opened his ears and listened as hard as he ever did before.

The wind gracing the meadow didn't quiet for him and silently he cursed it. Whatever was in those trees was shielded by windsong. And he wasn't far off either. Then again, perhaps there was nothing to worry about.

That wasn't true though. Something was hiding in those trees. Someone gave a signal when he approached. When he was near halfway across the clearing. He corked his waterskin and knelt down, seeming to rest as he studied the ground. No fresh prints, but the trail was surrounded by grass. Far easier to hide a bootprint. He was sure the ones in the forest waiting for him knew it.

And during that short thought, the wind died. Trying not to panic, he focused again on the trees with his ear, trying desperately to hear. That section of woods had no wildlife near it. No paws trailing on the forest floor. No claws climbing the tree. No true bird song. Or false ones for that matter.

But he did pick up a pulse…and another one….and another…a fourth one…several more…

Breathe, Tiresias, breathe. Stay loose. Hold and release.

Slowly, Tiresias stood, keeping his eyes on the north, his left ear to the forest. Once he heard them, he didn't lose them. The pulses ranged in their speed. Two of them pulsed rapidly. The rest were pretty settled. One was particularly calm. Listening to them, Tiresias concluded one thing: he had very little time to act. Especially if that calm pulse belonged to whom he believed it belonged to.

He ran over the last section of forest as quickly as he could, trying to log away anything useful. In five seconds, he would turn back.

Five.

He tightened the strap to his waterskin.

Four.

His fingers passed lightly over his pocket, where his bowstring was curled. Once settled, he'd string it. He'd have to reserve enough calm for that.

Three.

The dagger was there too. Today would be an awful day for it to fly out of its sheath.

Two.

With his eyes still to the North, Tiresias exhaled the held breath, finishing on the last count.

One.

As casually as he could, without a glance forward, he turned back and sauntered east, straining his ears as much as he possibly could. Five seconds passed. The wind behind him carried strained whispers from the woods where the pulses were, unintelligible at this range.

At twenty paces, the unmistakable sound of a bow drawing reached his ear.

Tiresias jerked to the right and bolted forward. The arrow raced past his left and struck in the ground. Swooping down, he grabbed it as he raced for cover. The shouts behind reached him easily. There was no need for his sensitive ears there. Instead, he focused on the air behind, trying to block the unmistakable voice of Locke as he listened for more arrows. In between his feet pounding the dirt road.

Fifty feet from the trees, another arrow sailed over his head from the right. It landed too far away for him to retrieve it. He had to find cover. The third arrow was fired before the second one even landed. Tiresias jumped to the side and kept running. The arrow whistled past his face, skidding to a halt on the dirt road. Through some miracle, he managed to scoop it up without losing his balance on the run.

Reaching the forest line, he threw himself behind a tree, just as a fourth arrow sailed past him. He didn't even entertain the idea of going after it. Placing the two stolen arrows in his quiver, he withdrew his bow and peered around the tree, panting. Locke and his men were halfway across the clearing, nine in total. His hand went to the pocket where the bowstring resided, but he stopped himself after pulling it out.

No! No, you don't have time. By the time you get it strung, it'll be too late. Keep going. Now!

He bolted into the forest, thanking the gods that they didn't bring dogs this time. The bowstring remained curled in his fist as he ran deeper and deeper into the forest. As the brush grew thicker, the noises of his pursuers lessened, though he heard their curses as they crashed into foliage. Finally, after a few minutes when he was sure he couldn't be seen by their party, he crouched behind a bush and tried to catch his breath as silently as he could.

The shouts and steps of the hunting party echoed through the trees. Savoring a quick drink of water, he pulled off his cloak, waterskin and rucksack, placing them by a trunk. As he tightened his quiver, the smells hidden by the meadow's wind earlier came to his nose easily and he detected the Bolton men as they neared his hiding place, estimating the nearest one at a hundred yards.

Not pausing to dwell on their stink, he took off the quiver and placed it upright, leaning it against the bush. With only a limited time before they came within earshot, he pulled out the bowstring. Looping it at the bottom and unable to stand it up without exposing himself, he placed the bow's bottom on his boot and pulled the top down. The bow dug into the top of his foot as he brought the top loop of the string to the bow.

"C'mon," he breathed silently, mouthing it. "C'mon, c'mon…"

The top loop latched on and he exhaled. He sniffed and they were just west of him. As he peered through the bush, he saw two of them headed in his general direction. His hand went to the dirt, palming the ground quietly until he found a suitable rock. Scurrying to the tree, he stood and waited. While he listened to his pursuers' prowl, he scanned the south wall of trees, open to him, his heart pounding in his ears…

Wait for it…wait for it…

What exactly? Tiresias didn't know. He would only feel it. And he did…when the two nearing Bolton hunters stopped, their footsteps disturbing the forest floor as they turned in place…

Perfect.

Putting as much strength into his arm as he could while remaining silent, Tiresias threw the rock south. He sank back behind the bush, observing it. It sailed through the air and he watched in horror as it hit no trees…and sighed in relief as it crashed into some shrubbery.

The noise reached his pursuers.

"There! South! Go, go!"

Tiresias gripped the bow tightly, nocking his first arrow. It was one of the two that he borrowed. He resisted the urge to stand and fire, willing his heart to slow. Afraid they might hear it as they passed. Nine pairs of boots thudded passed west of him as he crouched down. One of them carried a set of chains. Tiresias' eyes passed from his arrow to his wrists, allowing himself a brief grim smile.

My traveling gear…don't wait too long, mate. Your range isn't that good.

He gave himself a three count as the last one passed, trying to keep their positions more or less in his head. So that he was able to draw his bow back as he stood, pointing his arrow to the nearest Bolton man. He released both his breath and the arrow.

It struck well and the man fell. As all the hunters were focused on the stone's throw to the south, they didn't see their companion fall. It was a glorious opportunity.

Tiresias reached down for another arrow, his eyes going to the next man nearest to him. This one had a broader back than the first…

He released the arrow without aiming it as much as he would have liked. The broad-backed man took the arrow though and went to his knees. Unfortunately, he groaned loudly as he did so. As Tiresias reached for a third arrow, he heard the group stop. He raised the bow again to see Locke in the distance turning his face toward him.

As much as he wanted to, Locke was too far away. And so he turned his bow to a balding man, who met his stare with his own watery eyes. Seeing that he was aiming for him, the balding man tried to dodge, but Tiresias saw the movement ahead and adjusted. The arrow found the man just before he dove behind a tree. Tiresias heard him crash onto the ground and claw it before lying still.

That's three.

Grabbing the quiver and swinging onto his back, he ran, giving no thought to the rucksack, cloak and waterskin left behind.

I'll come back. If I can…

The first night he spent in Westeros came to his mind. What was his excuse when he showed up at the farmer's door? Pursued by bandits? Beaten and stripped?

If he wasn't focused on escaping a far worse fate, he would have laughed. Now he couldn't afford it. He needed his strength.

Especially as he veered to the right and started charging up a slope, facing east. Based on the yells behind him, he knew this wasn't unnoticed, but it didn't matter. He needed the high ground. At least, the trees were so thick now, they couldn't get a good shot. No arrows flew toward him.

After about one hundred feet up, he got behind a tree and leaned against it, panting heavily again. After a few seconds, he lifted his bow and nocked an arrow. He closed his eyes, trying to listen over his pounding heart…

The remaining six men were very near and they hadn't lost track of him. The closest one was just reaching the slope. Tiresias opened his eyes and turned around the tree, raising his bow. He fired down.

It missed the hunter by a foot, but it sent the man hurrying for cover behind a tree. Without thinking about it, Tiresias nocked and fired toward the other five hunters. Each shot was released in quick succession, without the time needed for accuracy. But that didn't bother Tiresias. His pulse slowed as he released shots toward his pursuers. Each one in view found shelter as they went for their own arrows.

Knowing his opportunity was limited, Tiresias nocked his last arrow and came out behind the tree. No eyes were on him. They were waiting for him to deplete his ammo. The last arrow fell at the feet of the nearest man, as he sheltered behind a tree at the bottom of the hill. He hoped the man wouldn't notice the changed angle. Or the slight debris rolling to the bottom as he hopped down to a lower tree on the slope.

He didn't peer around to check. There was too much risk there. His tongue felt very dry as he tried to swallow silently. Placing his bow down quietly, trying to listen. The hunter at the bottom was joined by a second one. A few seconds passed before they started to climb. He imagined them nodding to each other beforehand.

Flexing his fingers lightly, he reached down and unsheathed his dagger. The two men made their way slowly up the hill, pausing behind the trees, he presumed. Based on their movements, they still thought him hiding behind the higher tree on the slope. A third hunter was just beginning to climb as well. Tiresias came back to himself and raised the dagger, gripping it loosely…

The nearest hunter was approaching his tree. His next hiding place would be right around the trunk from his. Loose dirt rolled down the hill as the hunter stepped quickly, halting two feet away from him. Tiresias exhaled silently, praying the man's focus was on his previous spot…

He saw the man's sword first, unprepared as he prepared to climb farther up. Tiresias ducked under the steel and came up, sinking the dagger into the man's throat. Blood coated his hand as the eyes quickly dulled. The sword fell to the ground, but not before his companion saw it.

Tiresias saw the second hunter charge him, forgetting to hold his sword safely as he ran up the slope. Withdrawing the dagger, he shoved the dying man into the charging one, sending them both tumbling down the hill. He fell to the ground himself, with the force of his shove. Scrambling back to the tree, he heard renewed shouts from the party. Arrows flew past him, into the slope above but he didn't risk grabbing them. He got behind the tree again, trying to listen.

The two tumbling hunters had reached the bottom, but they hadn't deterred the man who followed them. He was still coming and he knew exactly where he was.

Tiresias placed the dagger down and rubbed dirt on his hand, muddying up the blood. He couldn't risk his hand becoming too slick. He couldn't lose his dagger.

The man was thirty feet from him, very heavy from the sound of his thudding boots.

As he ran dirt between his fingers, they brushed a rather large rock. He picked it up without hesitating, along with the dagger as he stood. A weak scoff came out of him, in between the panting.

Maybe I should carry a pouch for these.

"Come on out," the big hunter growled, in between his own breaths. "Come on, ye bastard, I know yeh right there. I'm coming for yeh. Rip yer fuckin' balls out…"

Tiresias marked these words with each step the man took.

Thanks for letting me know where you are, fuckface.

He gripped the stone tightly in his right hand. His aim wasn't the best and he had to time this right. When he estimated the big man at least ten feet from him, he stepped out and threw it. Hard.

A helm would have saved the man's eye. Blood escaped him before the stone fell down to the earth. His enraged scream of pain echoed in Tiresias' ears.

"Fuckin' cunt!" His gloved hand went up to halt the bleeding, as Tiresias came forward not too slowly, switching the dagger to his right hand. He wasn't the only one with good ears though. At the sound of his boots hustling down the slope, the partially blinded hunter began to swing wildly in front of him, trying to find his balance on the slope.

Tiresias came to the side, glancing down to see the hunter who had tumbled making his way back up. The remaining hunters were gathering at the bottom of the slope, including Locke. He felt the man's glare all the way here. Another hunter at the bottom raised his bow.

He dropped to the ground as the big hunter swung over him, presenting his ankle. Tiresias quickly stabbed there, fresh blood covering his filthy hand. A new roar of pain came from the man, beyond words by this point. In a pure rage, he hacked at the ground. Tiresias had to roll to avoid it, finding himself below the man on the slope, behind his back.

In between the screams, he heard the strain of a bow being pulled below.…

Hopping to his feet, he grabbed the big man and used gravity to pivot him around. As Gord showed him. The hunter's large frame was a grand shield. The arrows meant for him pierced the hunter, his screams of rage ending quickly. Trusting that he was finished, Tiresias threw the big man down the hill toward the approaching hunter.

Having already learned his lesson before, this one sidestepped another dying man plummeting down the slope and drew his sword. Tiresias held his dagger out, glancing at the bottom. The archer was moving out of the way of the plummeting corpse as well. His eyes returned to the nearing hunter. He had a few seconds before the arrows would fly again.

His heart pounded so hard it hurt. His hand trembled.

Snarling in frustration, the hunter swung his sword too early. Tiresias stepped back to avoid it, balancing on the slope. He brought the dagger to his waist.

Build it. You just need one strike.

The hunter kept his balance as well and continued to swing. Tiresias dodged each one, backing up, nearing the tree where he last hid. Where his bow was. As the hunter was prepared for a backswing, Tiresias planted his left foot.

In this situation, he was perfectly all right with a cheap shot.

After the hunter swung his sword, opening his front, Tiresias came forward and shot his right foot up. The impact to the man's groin caused him to lean forward, exposing his throat. He barely had time to feel the wave of pain emanating from his testicles before Tiresias brought the dagger up from his waist.

Red spilled onto his hand, already stained from the others. He grasped the sword hand, in case of any remaining will to swing at him. But the hunter's eyes quickly drained of that murderous will and rolled back. Tiresias withdrew his dagger and pushed the man down to join the others. Not waiting to see him roll down the slope, he withdrew behind the tree and grasped his bow, panting. Relief flooded through him, though he still had no arrows to fire.

That's six. Three more. Just three. You can handle three…

He breathed in and held it, releasing slowly. Trying to slow his racing heart. His breaths passed through his parched throat and he wished that he had his waterskin. He swallowed what little spit he had, casting his ears down below.

Locke and the remaining two hunters weren't chasing him up the slope. Tiresias heard the three men conversing below. For all his setbacks, Locke remained calm, dropping his voice to a whisper. Tiresias heard his anger quite clearly though. The man's heart was racing quickly too.

Sitting down to rest, he lowered the bow and the dagger to the ground. In between the pounding of his own pulse, the hurried whispers below reached his ears.

"Drop the chains, Tabbot. Just drop the fuckin' chains! Take ye bow and move north. Quietly. Get a good shot from the side. Cato, yeh go south. Climb up nice and quiet. Force him into the open. Tabbot or I will get him when he comes out."

"Lord Bolton said we're to take him alive."

Locke spat on the ground. "So aim to cripple. If yeh so scared. I'll take the anger from Bolton if he dies. Just fuckin' get him."

The two men began their respective routes, their feet quiet on the forest floor. Tiresias admired their dainty footfalls. Not even the best hunters in Winterfell had their stealth.

Locke, however, made no secret of his movements. He stalked to the bottom of the slope.

"Tiresias!" he shouted from the bottom. "Yeh still there, mate!?"

Sweat dripped down his forehead. Tiresias brought his right hand up to wipe before remembering it was still bloody from the three men who laid at the bottom. He made due with his left.

"How many arrows yeh got left, eh?" Locke called out. "Just that dagger, right?"

He was right. Tiresias glanced at his empty quiver and untied it from his side. There was no point in carrying it.

The man stalking north was almost in position. The one to the south was already making his way up the slope. Both were still proceeding carefully.

"I'm not coming up to meet yeh," Locke yelled from below. Tiresias heard an arrow being nocked. "So just come on out. Me and the boys…we'll give a quick death. That's a fair deal, mate. More than fair compared to what we had planned for you..."

Tiresias rubbed his hands with dirt. The slickness of the blood molded into a sticky mess. He picked up the bow in his left hand and carefully grasped the dagger by the steel.

The hunter to the north found a good position. He heard the bow being pulled. The man to the south was only thirty feet away from him. There was no more time. With a fortifying breath, he stood up, leaning against the tree.

"What say yeh, Tiresias?" Locke called out, pulling his own bow back as well. "Give us a good shot then, aye?"

Tiresias extended his left foot, preparing for the pivot. He had only practiced this on level ground, from the same distance even. But never on a slope, never on a moving target.

Something to practice if I emerge from this alive, I suppose.

A slight scoff escaped him. The hunter to the south, on his right, was only fifteen feet away from him. He took a deep breath, raised the dagger and pivoted.

He knew as soon as he released the dagger that he threw it too low. There was no time to lament it though. As soon as he followed through, he dropped to the ground, clasping his bow to his body. On his way down, he sensed the arrows pass over him, one from the north, the other from Locke, whose scream of pain he heard as he began to roll down the slope.

Sound became entangled with the sight and smell of the earth as he rolled down. Something hard hit his hip and he grunted. Soon though, he reached the bottom and collided with a pair of legs.

His sudden stop sent Locke to the ground, with a fresh wave of pained snarls. Blinking away the dizzy spells, he kicked and hit the man in the head, turning his snarls into mumbled groans. The man was clutching his knee. Tiresias blinked to see his dagger embedded, just above in his thigh.

His ears cleared in time to hear rustling above. He craned his neck to see the hunter from the south emerge from the tree where he hid just seconds ago. Tiresias patted the ground behind him, reaching for the moaning Locke's quiver. He latched onto two arrows just as the hunter raised his bow.

Throwing himself against the slope, his face planted in the dirt, he heard the arrow land behind him where he just laid.

Get up man. Get the fuck up!

Snarling, he pushed off against the slope. On one knee, he raised the bow, nocking and releasing the arrow. He didn't wait to aim. He thought of Anguy, wondered if he'd ever meet that smartass archer.

His wild arrow nearly missed, catching the hunter in the shoulder. It certainly stopped him from firing the second arrow he was nocking. Tiresias didn't let him yell in pain for long. He nocked and fired his own second arrow, allowing himself one second to aim.

It certainly helped. The arrow found the lung and the hunter was silenced, falling and sliding down the slope before coming to a halt halfway. He laid still, facedown in the dirt.

Tiresias breathed, the lights sparkling in his eyes from the roll down the hill finally dimming. He glanced to Locke, who was still trying to come to, his hand patting his side haphazardly for his own weapon.

His eyes left Locke and went to the north, where the final coherent hunter lurked. He founded him a second later, fifty yards away. The man met his eyes for a brief second before turning and running away.

"Shit," Tiresias growled. Turning back to Locke, he grabbed the remaining arrows from the man's quiver before reaching down and extracting his dagger from the man's leg, inspiring a fresh wave of pained, slurred swears. He didn't wait to listen to them though. Sheathing the dagger, he ran west.

He kept the man well within his sights, running parallel to him, trying not to stumble over any brush or roots. It seemed the man was trying to get back to the clearing, back to where they had planned to ambush him originally. Tiresias imagined they had horses nearby.

Knowing full well he couldn't outrun the man on horseback, he picked up his pace, making for the clearing. The man had already crossed in front of him. Tiresias spat.

Fast motherfucker, aren't you?

He didn't realize how far he had led the hunting party into the forest. He tailed the man for a solid five minutes. Twice, the hunter got behind a tree and fired an arrow at him, forcing him to hide. That gave the man precious seconds to flee.

Finally though, they made it to the clearing and Tiresias saw the man bounding through the tall grass, heading for the opening in the trees where the road continued. Instead of following him through the grass, he turned and immediately went to the road. Within seconds, he was on solid bare earth, his feet pounding as he gained traction. The hunter was still in the grass ahead of him, but losing ground. He didn't notice this though and Tiresias took advantage.

He stopped and nocked an arrow, bringing his aim to the center of the road.

Aim for where they're going. Not where they are…

Forgotten smells and unnatural lights came to his memory and he allowed himself a second to remember. He dropped it though as soon as the man burst from the grass and straightened himself, running for the forest, presenting his back.

Tiresias released the arrow. It landed just below the lung and the man collapsed. As he hurried forward, the hunter continued to crawl. Dropping the bow and arrows, Tiresias withdrew the dagger. Making sure the man didn't have his hands on any hidden blades, he bent down and cut the hunter's throat.

He avoided blood spilling out onto his hand for this one. Instead the blood ran out onto the road, darkening the dirt. Tiresias stepped back, hearing the man's heart simmer to a stop. He panted heavily, hearing the same insects that sang when he first came to this clearing. When he heard the mock birdcall.

Eight down…one more…

Once he caught his breath, he extracted the arrow from the hunter's back and left him lying in the road. He proceeded back into the forest. It wasn't hard to find where he had left Locke. They all left quite a mess scrambling through the foliage. Tiresias slowed his approach as he came to the slope. He may have taken Locke's arrows, but he could have found more scattered about. He also could have other weapons on him.

However, when he came upon the spot before the slope where he had left Locke, the man was gone. Tiresias didn't panic. His eyes quickly found his tracks, a limp apparent. His nose caught the blood that fell. Though not as much as he expected. He supposed the man took the time to bind his wound.

But he was in no condition to move through the world without a trace. Tiresias followed the staggered steps, sheathing his dagger and slinging the bow over his shoulder. He followed the trail quickly and it took him southeast. After only a few moments, Tiresias guessed where he was headed.

Do all pursued men head toward the water?

The rushing current of the White Knife echoed through the trees as he approached. As he emerged from the forest, he squinted against the light reflected off the water. The sun was beginning to touch the horizon.

Stopping to enjoy it was not an option. He brought his eyes down again. Locke didn't crawl to the river. He didn't even follow it for very long. Tiresias walked for only a minute or so before halting. There was some shrubbery along the tree line. The ground before it looked very disturbed.

Tiresias approached it cautiously, keeping a safe distance. The beginnings of a boot sole caught his eye. From there, he traced it to where a head would be. Approximately. Sure enough, he caught the strained eyes of Locke, as he stared at him through the brush.

No one said anything for a few seconds. Tiresias saw Locke close his eyes and tilt his head back. Heard his quiet sigh.

He called over the current. "Are you going to come out?"

Locke laughed from behind the greenery. "Can't move now. Fucked up my leg good, yeh did."

Swallowing despite a dried throat, Tiresias moved forward and clasped Locke's boot. Keeping an eye on him, he pulled Locke out, dragging him from the shrubbery.

The man gritted his teeth as he was dragged. "Fuck…" he snarled, before swinging his arm up.

Tiresias saw the knife as soon as he pulled Locke out. He was already out of range and merely stood, leaving Locke to miss and collapse back down, panting. Stepping on the wrist, he extracted the knife from Locke's fist. As he took it, he stepped away to the side, leaving Locke to pant on the ground.

He looked at the knife, curiosity seeping into him. Was this the same blade that took Jaime Lannister's hand? It happened quickly and he wasn't focused on the blade that crippled the Kingslayer. The scream and the bleeding stump were distracting enough. The same steel? Maybe. Maybe not. A hunter like Locke probably possessed many blades.

And ultimately it wasn't important. Not anymore. He stood silent as Locke panted, catching his breath. Finally, the man pushed himself off the ground and sat up. Turning his head, he looked to Tiresias, scoffing as his eyes came to the knife in his hands.

"Can't blame me for trying."

"I don't," Tiresias replied evenly. "You have your orders."

Tossing aside the knife, he unslung the bow from his back and nocked an arrow. He didn't draw it though and kept the weapon pointed down, relaxed. Locke looked from the arrow to him.

"What are yeh waiting for? Bastard, just fuckin' do it."

"In a moment," Tiresias said quietly. "I want to ask a few questions first."

Locke laughed softly, looking away from him, towards the river flowing.

"Yeh think I'd tell ye anything? Yeh might be a good hunter, handy with a knife." He looked back to him, meeting his eyes evenly. "But yeh don't have the look in yeh. I can see that weakness in ye eyes. I know pain, mate. Yeh can't do what yeh need to do to get me to talk."

They stared at each other for half a minute. Tiresias heard the man's heart slow. He waited for it. He needed it calm. Finally he crossed to place himself in front of Locke, crouching before him. Not too close. The light from the setting sun gleamed in the man's eyes.

"I'm not Lord Bolton. I don't need pain. I don't need a rack. I just want to ask you some questions."

"I told yeh, I'm not answerin' ye fuckin' questions…"

"Aye, you will," Tiresias interrupted calmly. He exhaled, staring into Locke's eyes. "You and your men were waiting in White Harbor a long time, weren't you?"

Locke didn't open his mouth. Tiresias met his defiant gaze until he saw his answer.

"No…no, not that long," he murmured. A quickened pulse followed that statement.

"You were told I was coming."

It wasn't just the sunlight that caused Locke to squint slightly. To tighten his mouth by just a minuscule. Besides the light was growing softer as the sun sank further into the west.

Tiresias breathed. "Lord Bolton has a spy in Winterfell."

There was no horrified gasp on being found out. Not from Locke. The man merely grew more still. More blank. It could have been a front, a technique to avoid any revelations during an interrogation. But the man's blood sang a different tune. After a few seconds, Tiresias stood and breathed. Locke's pulse faded into the currents of the White Knife.

He looked out over the water, golden in the sunset. There was no need to worry about Locke. The man was still seated, staring at him. Finally, he scoffed.

"That's it? That's all?"

"Aye," Tiresias replied evenly. "Aye, that's all."

"Gods..."

Turning back, he saw Locke shaking his head.

"How'd a soft cunt like yeh ever beat the Mountain?"

Tiresias didn't answer. This day had been long enough already.

"It's a better death here than the one you suffered before." He raised the bow and pulled the string back. "You don't know that, but trust me. It is."

Locke's derision turned to confusion very quickly. Tiresias didn't let him dwell on it. The arrow fled hard into the man's throat, sending him back to the ground as he choked on his own blood. Tiresias passed a hand over his dagger and left it sheathed. It would be over soon enough.

After ten seconds, Locke stilled. Tiresias knelt to check his pulse and found none. He was alone again with the current of the White Knife and the evening birdsong…

Closing Locke's eyes, he stood and sauntered to the water. Squatting down, he placed his filthy hands in the running river, rubbing them. The blood and dirt swam away smoothly and he watched the evening envelope the land. It was a lovely view.

Shudders rolled over him. His hands trembled violently as he cleaned them. He began to heave, his mouth filling with saliva. It was very warm...

Quickly, he went on all fours, his hands in the river, and was sick.

The current carried away the vomit, but he remained on his hands and knees for a moment after. He breathed deeply, looking into the flowing water. His vision became blurred. His head was still warm…

As the shudders finally lessened, with clean hands, he washed his face free of tears and bile. He gargled and spat water to the side. Sitting, he continued to breathe as the adrenaline and fear drained from him and soon he breathed evenly with the current.

But only for a few minutes. Lightheaded, he stood up with hands freshly washed. If anyone saw him later that evening, they wouldn't give him away.

Locke was still there, dead with an arrow in his throat. He mulled over removing it before deciding not to. The extraction wouldn't be clean enough. Besides if the hunters had a camp nearby further along the road where he would have been ambushed, there were probably supplies. More arrows, some food, perhaps a horse if he wanted one…

Tiresias blinked to find himself kneeling by Locke's corpse, extracting his purse. His hands stilled as he spilled silver and coppers into his palm. He had never looted a purse before…

Never killed so many men before either. Pretty sure, that's by far the greater sin today here, mate…

He placed the coins back in Locke's purse, having left his own in the rucksack. After slinging his bow across his back and tying the stolen purse on his belt, he set off. He had to recover his rucksack, cloak and waterskin. Then he could get back on the road. Maybe loot the other corpses. Search for an abandoned Bolton camp.

Is it abandoned if they were just killed?

The semantics of the question busied him as he covered his tracks back into the forest. Not enough though. The taste of bile remained in his mouth. And despite his weariness, he still glanced to the trees for any more unwelcome eyes looking to seize him. His fingers continued to tremble as night fell.