Chapter 32: Chapter 32
Tiresias dismounted, staggering slightly as his feet found the ground. A familiar bolt of pain shot through his arm, but he kept his mouth clamped as he handed the reins to Tomas. He stalked away from the horses, sidestepping Lannister cloaks as he headed to the stream.
With his teeth, he unhitched the cap in his waterskin and held it under the water. Some of the soldiers joined him at the edge, filling their own skins. They said nothing to him and he gratefully returned the favor. If he opened his mouth, a moan might escape him as the ache pulsed from his arm. His itchy, hot, broken arm…
He couldn't say why he was so invested in being stoic. These soldiers weren't idiots. Despite his silence, they knew he was in pain. He moved too gingerly.
Splint's a bit of a dead giveway too, aye?
They did offer some help. Or rather Tomas, the youngest soldier in this outfit, offered to help, most likely on commands from the Captain. Artos Lantell had yet to say another word to Tiresias since they had left the inn.
It had been four days. Tomas had taken care of his horse and handed him a full bowl during meals. Tiresias felt that was enough. He declined any help with refilling his waterskin, rolling out his sleeping pad and he still climbed off and on his mount of his own accord.
Finding a comfortable rock, he sat, sipping the stream water, watching as the Lannister camp formed. It was quite something. Not that the Stark retinues he had traveled with were less efficient, but there was a formality and a precision to this outfit that he supposed was only expected with a man like Tywin Lannister at the head.
Tiresias lowered the skin. The thoughts of meeting Tywin Lannister filled him with dread. As much as he loved watching the character, he had no previous inclination to receive the Old Lion's attention. Once important enough to be in his gaze, one was either an asset or an enemy. Tiresias had no desire to be an asset…and he was in no condition to be an enemy. Not with a broken arm and surrounded by Lannister swords in the Westerlands.
He swung his rucksack around and fished out the Milk of the Poppy, burrowed safely in his bundled cloak. Getting the vial open unaided was a bastard of a task, but he managed it with some dignity. Placing a solitary drop from the drip onto his tongue, he closed the vial, returning it to its place.
A cooling relief crept throughout his body. Not totally dulling. He still felt the ache, but for the first time since he dismounted the horse, he actually relaxed and took in the summer evening scenery.
The scenery was littered though with Lannister soldiers, who looked away as he made eye contact. Tiresias took out a cloth and made his way to the water again. He wetted the cloth and wiped the sweat from his face. He didn't try to hide the Milk of the Poppy. He wasn't embarrassed by that.
But that's not why they're staring at you…
Ever since the inn, the stares stayed consistent. The men remained silent though. He strongly suspected they were under orders not to question him. However, as he glanced to them, catching their eyes before they looked away, he saw many things: bewilderment, disbelief, questions, curiosity and once or twice, fear…
Although, Tiresias had to admit that fear was only present during the first day. By the time they camped down for their first evening, it was readily apparent that he was in no condition to fight anyone.
The rest of the expressions stayed though and they made for some quiet evenings. He would sit down at one of their fires and that circle of soldiers became quite mute. He probably wasn't helping. His own eyes darted between the dancing flames and the faces of his escort and it inspired only silence. It was almost a relief when it was time to sleep.
Tonight though…it didn't feel right. As he took a full bowl of stew from Tomas, he couldn't bring himself to eat. As the other soldiers started to eat, he found himself staring at the flames trying to remember…
"Something wrong with your stew?"
He turned to Tomas, who had asked the question politely enough. A few other soldiers stopped eating to watch. Finally Tiresias smiled and shook his head. He remembered the beginning now.
With no guitar, he began to tap his leg lightly, getting into the beat. His eyes returned to the fire as he started to sing softly…
"They say you're seeing someone, you're wearing his ring.
They say you laughed when you heard my name.
They say he takes you dancing, he holds you so near.
They say he'll buy you anything.
Tell me, am I foolish? I don't believe these stories
And I'll be coming home soon.
Louise, Louise, if it's true
Tell it to me."
All the soldiers had paused their eating, staring at him. It was more curiosity than enchantment, but they were quiet.
"I know, you will not see me, but I know you have a daughter
And I hear she has my eyes.
They say she calls him father, and he's proud of her
And even believes all your lies.
But for all your faithless beauty, I'd give all my tomorrows
And if you're still thinking of me,
Louise, Louise, if it's true
Tell it to me."
He hummed through the refrain again. There was supposed to be an instrument here, a sound that he couldn't remember. He only recalled how it felt. How it saddened and comforted him all at once.
"Oh Louise, Louise, if it's true
Tell it to me.
Oh Louise, Louise, if it's true
Tell it to me…"
He ceased tapping his leg, fading the words into the crackling fire. Taking a few seconds before looking up, he realized the other nearby campfire was quiet too, looking over at him.
A light clapping intruded on the silence. He turned back to see Tomas applauding him softly. A couple others joined in. Tiresias let out a breath he had probably been holding ever since the inn. The applause ceased quickly, but it broke something in this escort. He was already nervous about meeting Lord Tywin, as he should be. He didn't need to fear this as well.
His heart considerably lighter, he placed his bowl strategically in his lap.
"Thank you, gentlemen. Forgive me…I didn't think I could handle one more quiet evening by the fire."
Once the bowl was settled securely, he picked up his spoon and began to eat.
"Was that a Northern song?" asked Tomas.
Mouth full of stew, he shook his head. "Across the Narrow Sea."
He could sense Tomas had more questions, but the young soldier swallowed them and returned to his own bowl. None of the other soldiers said anything more. The familiar noises of dinner filled the air, but it was different. The song broke the ice or at least slightly cracked it.
Whatever it did, he certainly felt better. He was confident that these soldiers weren't here to hurt him. They weren't going to shut him up when he sang, at least.
After he finished his stew, he walked gingerly over to the stream and washed it as well as he could with one hand. Tomas took his bowl back and he sat down again by the fire. Seeing that the soldiers were still tight-lipped around him, he bowed his head and closed his eyes.
Over the past few nights, realizing that he was trapped by Lannisters forbidden to speak to him, he opened his ears up to the forest at night, trying to pass the time before bed. It was rather fascinating. To hear the woods outside of the North at night. If anything else, it took him out of his body for a time. Away from a healing, aching arm.
This retinue of men scared away much of the small game. There was a larger animal downstream, but it was prowling away and soon, he couldn't smell it. However, the birds were quite present and the soft wind did more to amplify the sounds of flight than to dull it. He lifted his head slightly…
"What are you doing?"
Tiresias blinked, opening his eyes to the question. A soldier across the fire was staring at him. He had a hooked nose and hadn't revealed his name yet. The other men sat with their campfire hobbies; whittling, drinking, sharpening their swords. A few of them looked up at the man's question.
After a brief consideration, Tiresias decided on honesty. "I was listening to the wildlife."
He nodded behind the soldier. "There's an owl up behind you. Not quite a hundred yards. She's looking for her supper."
After scratching his right hand gently, he pointed into the dark of the forest, to his left. "She'll probably pick up the hare there in a minute or two. When the little fella moves."
The hooked nose soldier turned to where Tiresias pointed, before coming back, his eyes mocking.
"You can hear all that?"
Tiresias declined to answer. In all fairness, he didn't need to. Another soldier chimed in.
"Sure, he can, Edder." The man next to him paused with his wetstone. "I heard that owl fart not one minute past. Didn't you?"
Laughter went around the campfire. Tiresias felt his own grin grow. He preferred the mockery over the silence.
"Well, now," said Edder, wiping a tear from his eye. "Mate, be sure and let us know of any other happenings in the forest, aye?"
Tiresias knew he should let it go, but he couldn't help it.
"Certainly, Edder." He raised his finger, pointing into the darkness up and behind the soldier. "She's locked onto our long-eared friend now."
He closed his eyes, focusing. The music of her wings undercut the laughter of the soldiers, which died quickly as he moved his finger, following the huntress. It was dead quiet when his point came to the unfortunate hare in the dark.
A loud squeal emanated from his left. More than one soldier jumped. He dropped his hand as the owl flew off, flapping her wings harder to carry the extra weight.
When he opened his eyes, he saw no laughter in the soldiers' eyes. The fear was back in a few of them. He breathed quietly. He should have just stayed mum after the song. Why the hell didn't he just fall silent and take the joshing?
Nobody else spoke for the rest of the night. Not until bed. As Tiresias was just about to lay down, he felt Tomas staring at him. He turned to the soldier, younger than Jory. He had a burning question in his eyes.
Tiresias sighed. "Yes, Tomas?"
Tomas cleared his throat. "Did you…did you really defeat Ser Gregor?"
The other soldiers stilled. Tiresias stared at Tomas. The young soldier wasn't rude about it. He seemed genuinely curious, not yet jaded by violence. Just eager for the story. Tiresias was a little horrified by the curiosity. He had to let the fire crackle for a few more seconds before answering.
"Barely."
With that, he laid down, hoping sleep would take him soon. Perhaps he should just stop sitting with the soldiers every night. He didn't need the heat of a fire and they still had a hundred miles to go before Casterly Rock. His arm hurt just thinking about it.
"How? How did you…?"
"Tomas, shut the fuck up," murmured a bearded soldier from his sleeping pad.
He turned to see Tomas looking abolished. The young soldier quickly looked away from him and tucked into his own blankets.
I stabbed his brain through his eye, Tomas. I was in so much pain. When I cradled my broken arm, I didn't realize I was smearing his blood onto my skin. The maester had to clean it off.
Tiresias stared at Tomas for a bit before turning to the sky. He wondered if Jory and Gendry had passed Hornvale by now. Whether the raven from Deep Den had reached Winterfell. Did it fly as swiftly as the owl tonight? More so?
Another question, Tiresias…what advantage will it bring you for Tywin Lannister to know of your hearing? Because he will know before he sees you. These men will account for it.
Tiresias carefully settled his right arm across his stomach.
I sure hope their stunned looks were worth it.
Like the Wall, Casterly Rock came into view while substantial time remained to reach it. Though it wasn't a full day as it was with the Wall, they still rode through a large amount of farmland. Captain Artos led the company off the Goldroad, which would have continued into Lannisport. Tiresias saw the sea town to his left as they proceeded to the castle.
Unlike Winterfell, there were no settlements surrounding Casterly Rock. The last half mile was a steady climb, zigzagging into the cliffs. Thankfully the sun's heat was tempered by the stiff winds from the ocean. Tiresias breathed it in. It felt good to be near the water again.
Eventually they reached level ground again. It took another five minutes through the rock before they came to a clearing, where a very large castle awaited.
The home of the richest family in Westeros…
Tiresias glanced to the area surrounding the castle walls. He saw where the Unsullied had attacked. Despite the dupe by Jaime Lannister, they still took the castle quite easily with Tyrion's backdoor.
Best keep that information to yourself, man. You might need it one day if you come back here for one reason or another.
Going back to the castle, he scoured it further. Records in Winterfell put the Lannister garrison in this place at ten thousand men. It certainly seemed large enough from what he could see. Not to mention the catacombs below, mined into the cliff. The sun glared off the white marble, blinding him slightly.
Either way, he didn't have much time to admire the castle. The soldiers, spurned by the sight of their home, kicked their mounts into a trot for a last spurt. They approached the largest gate that Tiresias had ever seen. Even the Red Keep didn't boast an entrance this wide. He heard a horn sound as they neared and the gates creaked open to admit them.
The horses slowed as they came into the courtyard, cobblestoned and sculptured to welcome guests to the Rock. The shoes from their mounts echoed off the stone. Tiresias barely had time to take it in as they continued to ride farther into the castle. They passed another gate and the clops from the horses dulled as they rode onto dirt. This new area was devoted to the largest stables that Tiresias had ever seen. Hundreds of horses, easily. And plenty of stablehands to tend to them. Some of them rushed over to their company, taking the reins as the soldiers dismounted.
Tiresias dismounted with the rest of them, moving out of their way. As quickly as he could without seeming to flee. He leaned against the stone wall, his arm hurting more than ever. Not even the grand sight of the Rock could distract him. As the soldiers were sorting out their steeds, he took out the Milk of the Poppy and placed another drop on his tongue.
He eyed the vial before putting it away. It was empty now and his relief was at an end. In a way, he was glad. Any temptation to become reliant on such a substance was fading fast.
Also, he suddenly realized that it probably wasn't the best thing to take right before meeting the Old Lion…
Cursing himself, he swung his skin up, finishing off the last of his water. The slight dulling was already spreading through him. He lowered the skin to see Captain Artos marching towards him.
The Captain halted before him. "Come with me," he stated before turning around immediately to walk away.
Tiresias corked his skin. He had gotten very good at that with only one hand.
"Excuse me, Captain," he called.
A considerable distance away, Captain Artos turned, the surprise evident on his face. However, he remained put, so Tiresias kicked off the wall and walked over.
He reached the Captain, blinking to focus. "Might a man piss before he meets the Lord of Casterly Rock?"
The latrines were as impressive as any he had seen in Westeros. He leaned against the cool stone as he relieved himself. He hadn't slept well on the journey despite the Milk of the Poppy. And the encroaching meeting with Lord Tywin was only filling his limbs with slow jitters. It was the leanest adrenaline he could remember.
His arm felt sore again as he exited the latrines. Captain Artos didn't bother to instruct him to follow. He just turned and Tiresias fell in step, flanked by four guards.
"Captain Artos," he said as they proceeded to the first courtyard. "I don't suppose you're in a position to offer bread and salt?"
Artos didn't even turn around. "No," he stated brusquely.
Tiresias sighed. "Aye, I fucking figured," he muttered. He hitched his rucksack up as they reached the front door. A servant quickly opened it, bowing as they passed.
It certainly wasn't the first time that Tiresias was escorted to meet a lord in his castle. Not even including the first time he had entered Winterfell. He was familiar to the northern lords, having always introduced himself as he visited their keeps for tomes. None of the escorts to their solars equaled this though. He walked deeper and deeper into the Rock. It was difficult to believe it had started as a simple ring fort.
They passed hall after hall. Eventually they came to glass windows, where Tiresias spied a second stable, rows of barracks, a forge and a third stable. He smelled gardens and kitchens large enough to be smelled over the salt of the ocean.
All of which worked for him. It was no question that this castle smelled better than any other he visited. Only Winterfell smelled sweeter. Although perhaps that was his own bias.
As he registered this, Captain Artos led him to some stairs. They ascended a total of eight stairwells. Having no easy way to guess the actual height, Tiresias estimated they had climbed to the very top of the castle. They proceeded down a corridor, with dozens of tapestries. Handsome faces with blonde hair stared him down as they walked forward.
Artos stopped, putting his hand up to halt them all. They stood a fair distance away from the end. Where a dark mahogany door stood, with two guards at attention.
"Wait here," Artos said, before walking to the door. Tiresias turned to the glass windows. He saw the coastline quite well from this height. His eyes still on the window, he heard Artos knock.
"Enter."
The command was faint through the door, but Tiresias recognized the voice all the same. His stomach clenched and he breathed slowly to relax it, as he heard Artos open the door and closed it behind him.
He turned his ears away from the door, trying to focus. Trying to neutralize his face. Trying to enter Tywin's solar without looking too weak.
A snort came out of him before he could stop it.
Good luck with that, mate. You're exhausted from the journey. You have a broken arm and the Milk of the Poppy doesn't bode well for sharp conversation.
He turned back to the solar door. One of the guards looked slightly bewildered at his snort. The other one was quite stoic. He supposed Tywin preferred guards with as much humor as him.
A moment or more passed before the door opened. Tiresias went to take a swig from his waterskin before remembering he had finished it off down by the stables. Artos appeared from the solar and gestured for the librarian to come forward. He complied, his feet growing heavier and heavier as he did.
Nodding lightly to Artos, he went to enter before the Captain stopped him.
"Your dagger."
Tiresias suppressed a sigh. It wasn't like he was in any condition to use it. He unsheathed the dagger slowly and handed to the Captain. Artos Lantell passed the blade over to the right guard and entered the solar. Steeling himself, Tiresias followed the Captain.
He entered the largest solar he'd ever seen. The room faced west which flooded the room with golden light as the sun began to set. A marbled balcony bordered the office. Tiresias squinted his eyes against the reflecting light and brought them to the desk at the other end.
Tywin Lannister was framed by the shelves behind him. With perhaps a hundred tomes of elegant design. The sunlight caught the remaining blonde in his hair, slightly less gray than it was in the show. His eyes were to his desk, his hand writing sharply.
Artos stepped forward. "My Lord, may I present Tiresias?"
The quill stopped as Tywin raised his head, peering straight at him. Tiresias nodded automatically, keeping his eyes on the lord.
"Lord Tywin," he said. A little too softly for his liking.
Tywin took only an extra beat before returning to his letter.
"Leave us, Captain." Despite the size of the room, he didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
Artos bowed, with a quick "My Lord," before crossing behind him. He closed the door, leaving Tiresias alone in the Old Lion's den.
No…no, I've been alone since the inn.
He stood waiting for a few seconds but the only sounds in this solar were the distant crashes of the waves below and the scratching of Tywin's quill. Tiresias tucked his head and chuckled silently. Even the esteemed Lord of Casterly Rock wasn't above this petty game. Though he had no doubt that Tywin could conduct his Lord's business and interrogate him simultaneously.
Deciding to get comfortable, he walked over to the desk and dropped his rucksack next to one of the chairs in front. He managed to summon enough dignity so that he didn't just fall into it. Besides his arm still ached. As he lowered himself gingerly, he heard Tywin break his silence.
"I didn't give you leave to sit," the lord remarked, his eyes down on his letter.
Tiresias adjusted his shirt. "No, my Lord, but you don't seem like a man who'd waste a chair."
That line wasn't his, as much as he loved it. It stopped the quill though. Tywin placed it in its holder and leaned back, his arms poised regally. He regarded Tiresias steadily, who shrugged lightly.
"Besides," he said. "I was under the impression that I was your guest. Course, I haven't been offered bread and salt since I arrived. So…perhaps I assumed too much."
"You're the man who killed Ser Gregor?" The question cut through everything. Tiresias resisted the urge to tense and nodded.
"Aye," he said. "The big fellow in yellow." He leaned back against the chair. "A trial-by-combat. I volunteered to fight for the other party."
He tried to suppress a yawn, but he was too tired. Covering his mouth, he did it as quickly and quietly as possible.
"'Cuse me—"
"Why did you volunteer?" Tywin interrupted him, not interested in any excuses.
Tiresias shrugged. "Didn't seem like a fair fight. The innkeeper versus the Mountain."
"Did you know the innkeeper personally?"
"I took an ale and a biscuit at his inn the previous day. His daughter, the one that was raped, served me. But I've never seen him before then. Never even set foot in the Westerlands before, my Lord. Most of my time in Westeros I've spent in the North. I'm employed in Winterfell."
"What is your occupation?"
"I'm a librarian."
"What is your real occupation?"
Tiresias took a beat before responding, making sure his tone wasn't combative.
"That is my real occupation, my Lord. I've been the librarian at Winterfell for a little more than five years. Curating tomes from the North. Translating from the Old Tongue. Maintaining the library itself. I've also started to repair some of the older works and that takes a decent amount of my time. Hardly any of the tomes are in the pristine condition as the ones surrounding you."
Tywin's nostrils flared very slightly. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that a librarian defeated Ser Gregor in one-on-one combat?"
Tiresias scratched his arm. Carefully.
"Don't really have to take my word for it. There were plenty of witnesses. I've never partook in one of these things before, but it seemed that Lord Lydden proceeded as well as he could. I was focused on other things during the duel, as you can well imagine, but Lord Brax was present. As was Lord Prestor from Feastfires…"
"I'm aware of the other lords present," Tywin cut across him again. Tiresias caught his eye flit across an open letter before returning to him. He expected that several ravens have flown between Casterly Rock and Deep Den during the past fortnight.
"Why were you in the Westerlands to begin with?"
He looked back to Tywin.
"I was headed toward Lannisport."
"Why?"
"It's the largest settlement around these parts, though I'm sure you know that. I wanted to travel and see the sights."
Tiresias shifted his seat, rubbing his eyes.
"Travel," Tywin rolled the word out slowly. "You were traveling for leisure?"
Making his throat was relaxed before he spoke, Tiresias answered.
"I managed to win quite a bit of coin from the tourney in King's Landing. I was fortunate in my gamble during the joust, having bet on Ser Loras Tyrell. Winterfell is quite the distance from all else in Westeros, my Lord. If I didn't take the chance now, I don't know when I would have traveled south again. I'm no lord. Don't have much opportunity for leisurely travel. It wasn't all pleasure though. I was planning to take a ship from Lannisport down to Oldtown. Visit the Citadel and see if they'd be willing to part with any tomes they might have in the Old Tongue."
Tiresias sighed. "Of course, this was all before the trial. Afterwards…well, I was ready to head home, back North. After I'd recovered enough."
"You stayed at the same establishment owned by this innkeeper you fought for?"
"I did. He was kind enough to let me stay there and heal. Your men were quite fortunate to find me before I was able to travel."
That small bite left his mouth before he could stop it. Tywin didn't seem to care though.
"Why did you volunteer to fight for him?"
Tiresias gazed at Tywin as even as he could. "I believe I've already answered that, my Lord."
The Old Lion breathed slowly.
"Let me make one thing clear to you, Tiresias. You are here because my bannerman is dead. Killed in a trial-by-combat that seems more farcical the more I learn about it. I've been attempting for the past fortnight to make sense out of what happened. Because what happened does not make any sense.
"So tell me truthfully…why did you volunteer to fight Ser Gregor? Why is he dead?"
Tywin didn't raise his voice, but it took everything Tiresias had not to shrink in his chair. The fact that he was exhausted helped immensely. He exhaled as silently as he could.
"Ser Gregor raped a young girl. From I heard since, that was quite a common occurrence with the man. But I do despise rape, Lord Tywin, and I particularly don't like it when smallfolk are raped by the highborn."
He shrugged. "That's all there is to it. I volunteered because I was angry and I wasn't thinking clearly. I won…but I certainly didn't expect to. Not when I saw him walk fully armored into that hall."
"Were you not aware of Ser Gregor's reputation when you volunteered to fight him?"
Tiresias shook his head. "Not really. Knew he was from the Westerlands. Knew his banner from a book. Saw he was tall. Not much else. I knew he was a good fighter, but I never saw him do so."
"Didn't you see him fight at the tourney?"
"Didn't stay for the melee. I heard Lord Royce won that. So no, I never saw him fight." He paused for a bit, sighing. "Discovered he could during the duel though, that's for sure. Nearly took me out."
He sighed. "I was lucky. That's why Ser Gregor is dead. I was quick and lucky. I'm sure Lord Lydden mentioned such in one of his letters."
Tywin took his turn to exhale silently. Tiresias caught his nostrils flaring again, ever so slightly.
"And how did a librarian become so quick and lucky?"
"In Essos, we are not so strict with the divides between our roles. Just because I'm a librarian doesn't mean I can't train as well. There's time in the evening to be spent in the yard. After I'm done with my duties as a librarian for the day...though I will say; no training could have prepared me for what happened in Deep Den. Anger propelled me to fight. Luck saved me."
"So, you merely volunteered to fight out of anger then?" asked Tywin.
"Anger blinds us all, my Lord," said Tiresias evenly. "I certainly didn't think about the consequences if I had won. For me or you…or anyone else."
He laughed lightly. "Though, I'm sure Lord Stark will have words for me when I return. He's very concerned for the safety of the servants of his house."
Another itch crawled up his splint, but he resisted the urge this time.
"So, my Lord, is there anything else you would like to know this evening?" A yawn escaped him. "Forgive me. It was a long ride with one good arm and I've downed the last of my Milk of the Poppy when I arrived. The ache was rather immense."
The piercing light across the solar didn't affect Tywin as he stared him down. He simply leaned back, out of the sun's rays. Nothing more was said for a moment. Finally Tywin turned to the door.
"Page!" he called. A young man immediately opened the door. He crossed to the center of the room and stood at attention.
Lord Tywin held the silence for another beat before nodding to the side.
"Bring the tray and pour wine for our guest."
Tiresias maintained eye contact with the Old Lion, though unlike Tywin, he did blink freely. He blinked as he looked down to see a tray before him. Bread, salt and wine.
"As Lord of Casterly Rock, I offer you bread and salt. And welcome you as a guest, until you recover in full. And when you are ready to travel, you will be supplied for the trek back to Winterfell."
Tiresias blinked. "My Lord…Maester Seamas, the one who set my arm at Deep Den, he told me it would be several sennights before it was healed."
"Then you shall stay for several sennights." He picked up his quill, but didn't dip it in the inkwell just yet. His eyes still penetrated the librarian. "I trust that despite your arm, you will write to Lord Stark and inform him of the situation."
Not in the mood for another staring contest, Tiresias instead eyed the tray before him. Would this really protect him from Tywin for however long he stayed here? He had hoped to do this in front of a crowd. With actual witnesses. He doubted this silent page would be much assistance.
He tore off a piece of bread.
If it was a meaningless gesture, he wouldn't have bothered for my sake. Perhaps he was stupid for thinking so. However, he was tired and he wanted the evening to be over.
He dipped the bread into the wine and then the salt lightly. Taking a single bite, he washed it down with a gulp of wine.
Satisfied, Tywin dipped his quill into the inkwell and continued his letters, lowering his eyes.
"You shall see Maester Creylen now. See if that arm was set correctly. My page here will escort you."
Tiresias reached down for his rucksack, only to see that the page had already collected it off the floor. Ignoring the urge to insist on shouldering it, he nodded wearily and began to follow the page.
"And Tiresias…"
He paused and turned back to the Warden, who continued to scribble as he spoke, his eyes downcast.
"That dagger of yours will remain in your quarters during your stay here."
Not in any position to argue, Tiresias nodded.
"Aye, my Lord. Agreed." He inclined his head slightly. "Thank you, my Lord, for your hospitality."
Tywin's eyes came up briefly but fell quickly back to the parchment. Not expecting anything more, Tiresias turned back and followed the page out of the solar, pausing only to retrieve the dagger from a silent Artos Lantell.
It was another flight of stairs down before he allowed himself to sigh in relief. He hoped the page didn't hear it.
If Tiresias had any energy to spare, he would have devoted a decent amount of it to remaining stoic as Maester Creylen removed his splint. Hiding the pain. However, he just couldn't manage it.
Fortunately the maester had gentle hands and so his reaction was reduced to hissing as Creylen unwrapped and examined his arm. He held it to the firelight, instructing Tiresias to bring each finger, one at a time, to his thumb. He had regained some movement in his right hand and was able to do so, albeit a fair amount of discomfort.
Tiresias blinked a fresh tear away. "Your opinion, Maester?"
Creylen ran a soft finger along his forearm. "You're a fortunate man, Tiresias. I'm afraid I don't know Maester Seamas that well. However, if this arm is anything to go by, he's certainly an astute healer."
"So it's healing correctly?"
"You really shouldn't have ridden from Deep Den all the way here. Not in your condition. But as far as I am able to say…yes, this arm was set correctly and the healing not impeded by the journey."
A sigh of relief escaped him before he could stop it. "Thank God."
"Yes, yes," muttered Creylen, going to his shelves. "All seven of them. Now, if you'd allow me…"
Creylen placed the splint back, wrapping it gently. Tiresias gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to wipe his forehead.
"How much longer?" he asked, desperate for any distracting conversation. "How long 'til I'm healed?"
"When was the break?"
Tiresias shrugged, but only with his left shoulder. "A month, give or take a day."
Creylen tied off the splint. "Then another month until the splint comes off. But you should avoid any physical exertion until the arm is truly set and strong again. That would be another fortnight after."
He brought his arm back to his stomach, cradling it. "Lord Tywin's rather insistent that I stay here until I'm recovered."
"I'll inform his Lordship on the morrow of your condition and my recommendation."
Tiresias slid off the table, reaching down for his rucksack.
A month and a half in the Rock…fucking superb.
"I'll need to write to Lord Stark."
Maester Creylen nodded. "You'll be able to send a letter in the morning. A raven should reach Winterfell rather hastily."
The maester placed the old bandages in a covered basket. Smells of shit and blood reached Tiresias' nostrils before the cover was back.
"For tonight, however," said Creylen, crossing to his stores. "I'll give you something for the pain. Milk of the Poppy…"
"No," interjected Tiresias, shaking his head. "No, I'm…I rather wean off it. Or anything else."
Creylen shrugged, placing the vial back. "Not the worst idea. All I can recommend otherwise is a meal you don't need to cut and a level bed."
Once he had checked the gash on his chest, which had healed much more rapidly, he set Tiresias off with a steward. He dully followed the servant, who silently escorted him to the southern part of the castle, to the guest quarters. In between heavy blinks, he opened his eyes to find himself in a room larger than his own at Winterfell. Scents flew through an open window. He smelled sea salt and the forge from down below. Walking forward, he leaned out and saw the distant lights from Lannisport, the boats coming in with the evening tide.
Behind him, the servant had proceeded to build a fire in the hearth. Tiresias was too tired to tell him not to bother. He turned and saw a bathtub framed by the flames. The servant stood.
"Would the gentleman be needing a bath this evening?"
I needed a wash a fortnight ago.
Tiresias nodded. "Aye. Aye, thank you."
"I'll send hot water up. Would you need assistance washing? With your injury?"
"No," Tiresias lied immediately. He barely let Jory help him at the inn. Besides he was a little less helpless than he was then. "I'll manage."
The servant nodded. "Very well, Ser. I'll send supper shortly after."
"Thank you," murmured Tiresias, walking over to the fire and sitting down. It was too comfortable. He might just fall asleep here…
"And Ser…"
"I'm no Ser," Tiresias said softly. He sighed. "I'm not a knight. A lord or a gentleman."
He met the servant's eyes. They were quite impassive.
"I'm just Tiresias."
The man nodded. "Very well, Tiresias. Would you care for your clothes to be laundered?"
"Will they be ready in the morn? I'm afraid I don't have any clean spare clothes."
"If you wish, they will be ready when you wake. However, there are clothes in the drawers for your use. We ascertained your size when you entered the castle. If you find that they don't fit, we'll amend that immediately."
Tiresias stared at him. He didn't see any humor in the man's eyes.
"Your boots, though, will be ready by morning," continued the servant.
He nodded wearily. "All right…thank you. Aye, don't make them stay up…I'll just wear what's in the drawer."
"Very good, Tiresias. I could take your laundry now if you wish."
Tiresias open his rucksack and dumped out the contents. He threw his spare shirt on top of the cloak and kicked off his boots. Too tired to care about any vanity at this point, he proceeded to strip, gingerly working his shirt around his arm.
The pragmatic nature in the man's eyes suggested to Tiresias that he had seen more than his fair share of nude nobility and guests. He didn't even blink as he took the bundled cloak from Tiresias and bowed lightly.
"The hot water will arrive in a few moments. A meal should follow in a half-hour. Welcome to Casterly Rock, Tiresias."
"Thank you," said Tiresias. He cleared his throat. "Excuse me?"
The man halted in his turn to the door. "What's your name?"
"I'm not permitted to say, Tiresias," he answered without hesitation. He bowed slightly again and exited the room.
The nameless servant spoke true. Within moments of his departure, there was a knock on the door and two maids arrive with jugs of steaming water. He stood behind the chair for some semblance of modesty. However they didn't even look twice. They merely set the jugs down and departed.
Bathing was a tricky task with one good arm. The logical part in his mind told him he should have accepted the help. The nameless manservant wasn't the danger in this place. He just couldn't do it though. Being escorted by armed guard on the Goldroad soured him on the idea of being helped.
You are being helped though. Nameless servants catering to your every whim.
Tiresias conceded the point. It didn't change the fact that for just one evening, he wanted to be alone. Somewhat.
After an awkward wash and an insufficient dry, his supper arrived with a knock on the door. Wrapping himself in a thin towel, he was able to look the maid in the eyes as she wheeled in a trolley with a tray and three separate pitchers. After setting the tray and pitchers on the table, she curtsied and departed.
The Lannister guards ate well when they camped on the road. At this point in the day, Tiresias was so hungry that he would have eaten anything. However, the prospect of an extended stay at Casterly Rock was lightened as he lifted the tray to reveal his supper.
A man could get used to this.
The main dish was a lentil and onion stew. There was also a spiced squash with crumbled goat cheese and a small, fresh loaf of olive bread with dipping vinegar on the side. He reached for the dessert, a pear tort, and took a bite of that first.
As for the pitchers, there was cool water and dark red wine. He didn't care for wine particularly. However this wine sang over his tongue as he drank. The third pitcher, he was surprised to discover, contained cooled fresh milk. A little strange, but probably on the instruction of the maester. He needed the calcium for stronger bones, though he doubted they called it calcium…
Whatever the reason, he ate and drank well that evening, his weariness put off long enough to finish what on his plate. But that didn't last long after. As he soaked up the last of the vinegar, his eyes began to droop. He scanned the room. His rucksack was still a mess on the floor. The empty buckets that carried the hot water were sideways. The window remained open.
He didn't care. Standing and letting the drying cloth crumple to the floor, he stalked toward the bed, regaining just enough mind to prop his arm up with the spare pillows. There were quite a few of them.
Echoes from the cries of seabirds woke him the next morning. A breeze drifted across his chest and he opened his eyes to a bright blue sky. He groaned as he got up from the bed. One night of good sleep wouldn't cure his weariness. Not from the travel, the injury or anything else. A small part of him was grateful to Tywin Lannister for his mandated hospitality.
He crossed the room, pausing in front of the window. Even at this distance, he could see Lannisport busy with activity. The harbor was relatively clear though. Most boats were out at the moment.
In Winterfell, in the very center of the North, he had forgotten the sounds and smells of the sea. Traveling to White Harbor and onto King's Landing, it was impossible not to be uplifted by the sounds of the waves crashing and the smell of salt. To welcome the great open blue. He truly loved Winterfell, but…he couldn't help but wish it was near the sea.
He sighed. Well, you have quite a bit of time here to enjoy it.
And he would have plenty of opportunities to simply gaze out this window. Moving onto the drawers, he inspected what attire had been left for him the day before. Simple, but neat trousers. The shirts were a little larger than he normally wore, but it made it easier to place his splint through the sleeve.
Not wishing to oppose Tywin in his home, he removed the sheath from his belt and placed the dagger in the drawers, before securing the belt around his waist.
Feeling a little embarrassed as he gazed around and saw the mess he had left last night, he tidied a bit; gathering the drying cloths, turning the pots right side up, organizing the rucksack, and pulling the bed covers over. It was hardly a suitable job with one good arm, but he felt better leaving this room for the nameless servant who would tend to it.
When he stepped out, he looked down to see his boots cleaned and ready for him. As the manservant promised. After he pulled them on, he realized he wasn't too hungry. Plus, as he gauged the sun's position, he probably missed breakfast. Not wanting to impose and deciding to wait for lunch…whenever or wherever it would be served, he decided to act his part and head for the library.
It took a few points from the castle staff and more than one wrong turn corrected. However, after walking for what he swore was a mile, he opened a pair of handsome doors in the western part of the castle and walked inside.
The room he entered was thrice as big as the library he had in Winterfell. It rivaled the Red Keep's facility. The shelfs weren't as compacted though. Tiresias estimated that they didn't even have twice the number of tomes and scrolls as they did up north. The luxurious space was committed to just that: luxury. Exquisite rugs lined the floor. The ceiling was vaulted and high. More than a dozen tables were interspersed throughout the room, surrounded by chairs with elegant carvings. Couches of expensive color framed the hearth.
Perhaps best of all, there was a stone balcony. Tiresias pressed the glass doors open and stepped out, feeling the wind graze his buzzed head. There was furniture out here as well, along with braziers for cold nights. Or what passed for cold in the Westerlands.
Deciding to indulge in the sea breeze later, Tiresias went back inside, shutting the doors behind him. He prowled the shelves, noting the sections he passed. Most libraries he encountered in the Seven Kingdoms were quite similar in their organization. Histories took precedent. Along with the lineages of the noble and minor houses. He noticed in the Red Keep and here that the texts concerning the Seven were prominent as well. That was not common at all in the North.
After that, all the academic texts. And then, fiction, poems and songs usually were settled along a walled shelf. Reading was hardly the recreational activity that Tiresias remembered from his old world, though he tried to amend that.
As for the old texts not written in the Common Tongue, there were usually located prominently, as symbols of wealth and stature. The Northern keeps usually kept their tomes of Old Tongue in front. Here he didn't see any Old Tongue volumes, though he did trace his finger along a few rows of Valyrian texts by the hearth.
If Casterly Rock had any Old Tongue volumes, he wagered they'd be in one place…
Ambling to the back corner, he found less than a dozen tomes. Honestly, he was astounded that he found that many. Running his finger along the spines, it came up clean. These volumes were most likely not well read, but the staff refused to let any inch of this library get dusty. He had to admire them for it.
Coming back with a trolley, he loaded every volume of the Old Tongue and carted them to a nearby table, remaining in the back of the library. He pulled out a carved chair, settling on the cushion and began to read.
Having gone nearly a month with no tomes, not to mention the two months he camped out in the Lonely Hills, his mind was starved for the pages. He read along, mouthing silently the words that Sorcha pounded into his mind. Having only intended to scan them, he quickly fell into the pages and didn't notice the sun beginning to shine into the room as the morning turned to afternoon.
He was halfway through the first tome when he heard the library door creak open. He started slightly, wincing at the ache in his arm, having forgotten it in his fugue. The door shut and someone was walking slowly through the library. Tiresias sat still, silent.
"Hello?" called that someone. He froze, recognizing the voice. Somehow, in his anxiety of meeting Tywin Lannister, he had forgotten about any others who resided here…
That walking…sounded very much like footsteps made by someone quite short…
Tiresias peered to the edge of the shelf, where the footsteps were heading. He breathed and held it, trying to calm himself as Tyrion Lannister rounded the corner and stopped at the sight of him.
They stared at each other for a beat, before the dwarf broke the silence.
"Good afternoon. Are you Tiresias?" he asked, his eyes piercing just like his father's.
Tiresias nodded numbly.
"I was told you were here," Tyrion said, glancing over the old tomes on the table. "Have you been here all day?"
"I woke up late." Tiresias shrugged. "Didn't know what else to do. I am a librarian after all."
His voice was a little ragged, having not drunk any water all day.
Tyrion laughed lightly. "You don't have to excuse yourself." He strode forward, his left hand extended. "I'm Tyrion Lannister, son of Tywin."
Tiresias stood, shaking his hand. "I figured that."
Tyrion smiled. "Of course you did." He looked Tiresias up and down. "So...you're the monster who killed my father's favorite monster…"
"Surprised?"
"I suppose I must be," said Tyrion. "Everyone stands tall from my eyes, but even the Mountain…I hope you take no offense when I say I can't see how you possibly beat him."
"None taken," mumbled Tiresias. "Seems to be the common sentiment."
He leaned against the table, sighing. "Are you here to interrogate me, as your father did yesterday?"
Tyrion smirked lightly. "Please, I have some decency. I'll wait until we're properly acquainted before I badger you for the bloody details."
"Are we to be properly acquainted?"
"Plenty of time to do so while you recover." He eyed Tiresias' splint. "Certainly didn't come out of Deep Den unscathed, did you?"
There was no need to nod his head. He settled back into the chair again. Tyrion sat in the chair opposite, his eyes still on the splint.
"How long until you're healed?"
Tiresias scratched the right wrist. Very gently. "Month and a half."
Tyrion clapped his hands. "Month and a half! Well, that's far too short of a time. But we'll make the most of it."
He stared at the dwarf. "The most of it?"
"Indeed! I'm excellent company. Despite what my father says." He raised his eyebrows at the look on Tiresias' face. "Oh I'm sorry, did you have other plans for your stay here?"
Tiresias shook his head numbly. "No…I just…"
"Figured you'd just read? Well, there's plenty of time for that. Luckily I read as well and I enjoy it." He tapped the table. "Actually you're sitting in my favorite spot."
He stared at the lord. "Truly?"
"No."
They stared at each other for a few seconds, before Tyrion erupted into laughter. Tiresias felt a chuckle escape from him.
"There it is!" said Tyrion, pointing to him in triumph. "Now, tell me. Does your arm still hurt?"
"Aye, it does."
"Oh." Tyrion nodded as he considered this. "Well, we'll have to have further distractions. Did you miss the midday meal?"
Tiresias nodded. "And breakfast."
"How about an early supper here, then? We'll get food and wine. And I'll show you the real treasures of this library."
"We don't handle any tomes as we eat," Tiresias said without thinking about it. Being a librarian made some rules automatic. "For their protection."
Tyrion smiled. "Indeed. I wouldn't dream of it."
Tiresias couldn't help, but smile back. It was his first in quite some time. He nodded, accepting the proposal.
Tyrion clapped his hands and jumped off the chair.
"Excellent!" He came around and began piling the tomes from the table back onto the trolley. "Come on. You can sit forgotten amongst the shelves back in Winterfell. Here, your eyes can drift between the sea and the pages."
They wheeled the tomes back to a table before the balcony door. As Tiresias unloaded the tomes again, Tyrion went to the door and summoned a page. He didn't turn his ear toward what the lord ordered, but it seemed substantial.
He was seated by the time Tyrion returned; all tomes unloaded.
"How much food did you order?" he asked, a little bewildered.
Tyrion walked past him, grabbing the trolley as he did. "Enough for a modest welcoming feast for an honored guest. Also, you missed two meals so I had to make up for that."
Tiresias twisted in his chair to follow the dwarf. "You're going to make me sick."
Tyrion shrugged. "So be sick." He paused before a shelf and pulled out a handsome tome. "If you are, run to the balcony and heave over the side."
He placed the tome in the trolley. "Just be careful the wind doesn't blow it back."
The tomes seemed merely a pretense. Tyrion rolled a full trolley back with his own selection and sat down. They both attempted to read, but the conversation only continued. Tyrion asked about the Old Tongue, the library in Winterfell and its curation.
Before he knew it, the food arrived with three servants. Tyrion directed them to the balcony while Tiresias marked his place, determined at some point to return to the Old Tongue.
He ventured out to the balcony, thanking the servants as they passed. All three nodded but remained silent. The wind carried the smells off the trays and he knew it was delicious. His breath still caught when he saw the spread.
If he thought last night was luxury, this was something else. There were a dozen dishes here. He turned to Tyrion, who shrugged.
"I didn't know what you wanted."
He gestured for Tiresias to sit. Swallowing an enormous amount of saliva, he did so. Unable to help himself, he reached for the nearest dish, charred octopus, still steaming in the bowl. The heat didn't bother him. Dipping the octopus piece into a spicy cream sauce and bringing it to his mouth, he felt tears well up.
He blinked to see Tyrion eyeing him as he poured wine. Tiresias nodded, savoring it as he chewed.
Finally he swallowed. "That's good."
Tyrion handed him a goblet. "Damn right it is." He raised his own goblet. "To a month and a half as the honored guest of House Lannister."
Tiresias returned the toast and continued to eat. As much as they tried to keep the conversation going, it kept coming back to the food. Tyrion informed him of each dish, of every spice, the surrounding farms, the fishing boats in Lannisport. All through full mouths, which could barely be understood over the evening sea wind.
As the sun began to set, they leaned back in their chairs, looking over the water. The dozen dishes were all gone. The second pitcher was the only thing left full, despite Tyrion's best efforts. Tiresias had not forgotten his rule, drinking mostly water and nursing only his second goblet of wine.
"Oh, come now," exclaimed Tyrion as Tiresias sipped. "You're being a very rude guest, not keeping up with me."
Tiresias set the goblet down. "I couldn't keep up with you if I tried," he said. "Besides…" He tapped his splint gently. "Can't risk getting drunk. I could fall down and hurt myself."
Tyrion waved his hand. "You have good balance."
"Oh? You know that from our evening together?"
"I read the report from Lord Lydden. One of them, at least. More than one raven has flown between him and my father…" His eyes narrowed as he leaned back. "You danced around Ser Gregor, yes?"
Tiresias didn't move, meeting Tyrion's eyes. "Is that what Lord Lydden said?"
The staring contest only lasted for a couple more seconds before Tyrion shrugged blithely. "Said you were swift."
Tiresias eyed his arm. "Not swift enough."
"Horseshit," said Tyrion, lifting a pitcher and refilling his goblet. "I know you're swift. You must be." He set the pitcher down and lifted his goblet, toasting Tiresias. "You're still alive."
He swallowed half the cup, before fixing Tiresias with a serious gaze. "But I meant what I said before."
Clearing his throat, he lifted his hand. "On this I swear; I shall not badger, nag, harass, probe, inquire...or demand any bloody gossip from you concerning your victory. Not until we're properly acquainted."
"And how long before that's the case?"
"Much quicker if you'd drink with me." Tyrion lowered his hand. "When you're ready though. When you're ready, we'll get drunk together."
"We'll see," said Tiresias, turning to the sea. The sun had just finished setting. He could stare at the sea without it blinding him.
"Indeed, we will." He saw Tyrion in his periphery turn to the sea as well. "I swear to that as well."
There was no threat in the man's word. Just play. At least he hoped. Perhaps Tiresias was just too excited to see Tyrion Lannister in the flesh. It was a fun dinner and a delightful conversation, especially compared to his father.
Be careful though, man. He's not your ally yet. And you no longer have the luxury of being a mere curiosity. Not after Deep Den.
Despite being a man who loved to talk, a drunk Tyrion seemed to know the value of listening to the waves. They sat in silence for a moment, hearing them crash into the rock below.
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