Chapter 38: Chapter 38
With the workload that had built up in his absence all settled, it fell to Tiresias to translate the tomes that he had brought back from Casterly Rock. Back in the Westerlands, he read them blithely, believing he would never see them again. When he learned from Tywin that they would be gifted, he had to resist delving deeper into him. He understood the Old Tongue well enough, but there was a difference between a hasty translation and a true interpretation of the runes. For the latter, he would need his notes and an environment where he wasn't under the eye of a dangerous lord.
He found both in Winterfell. And so, after his daily duties as the librarian were complete, he would spend the remaining hour or two, going through the ancient pages, bringing them to life.
It was difficult work while the lessons continued. He didn't even attempt it on the days when Luwin instructed them in Valyrian. Their little agreement continued to this day, where Tiresias sat quietly in the back and followed along as best he could. Learning the Old Tongue was easy compared to Valyrian and he found himself struggling to retain the lessons. Still he sat attentive, scribbling his notes with Luwin looking over them briefly at the end. Neither man sought to disrupt the ritual.
And so this morning, Tiresias didn't even open the Old Tongue tome he was currently working through. Instead he focused on his duties and prepared a blank parchment for the final hour.
Moments later, Maester Luwin entered the library, ambling up to him, chains echoing.
Tiresias nodded. "G'morning, Maester."
"Good morning, Tiresias. How fare the tomes from Casterly Rock?"
"About halfway through the first." He sighed. "It covers nothing particularly new, but it may reveal something else in time."
"It may." Luwin nodded before pulling a sealed scroll from his robe. "You have a letter. The raven came from King's Landing."
Tiresias took the letter, peering at the wax seal. A red Lannister lion.
"A friend you made in Casterly Rock, Tiresias?"
"Tyrion Lannister, I suspect," he murmured. "Don't believe I'll be hearing from Lord Tywin anytime soon. Least I hope not."
"Hm." Master Luwin nodded in agreement, before turning to the door. They could both hear the children coming. "Excuse me, Tiresias."
He wandered to the front as the children came through, straight from breakfast. Bran still had a little butter on his face. Theon was chewing on something. All of them greeted Maester Luwin, turning back to nod at him.
Tiresias returned their nods politely, before regarding the scroll in his hands. He resisted the urge to open it. He had work to do. And Valyrian to pound into his head. His pen pal could hold for a morning.
Feeling very dutiful, Tiresias placed the scroll down and began his work, continuing onto his discreet instruction in Valryian at the final hour. It was difficult though. His eyes drifted from Maester Luwin to the red wax lion on his letter. His concentration suffered and he suspected that he missed a few new words from the Braavosi dialect. A slightly embarrassing moment for him.
It didn't matter much. This slight feeling was muted when the lesson ended and the Stark youth exited the library for the midday meal. Luwin raised his eyebrows more than usual as he checked his work. Still he did fine. Nothing he couldn't correct on his own time.
Once the maester exited and Tiresias cleared up the tables, he took the scroll and broke the seal. Unrolling the letter under the candlelight, he read…
To Tiresias Mountain Goat,
It gladdens me to hear that you arrived safe and whole at Winterfell. As you probably may surmise, my journey to the capital was unadventurous as per your well-wishes. And although the snickers and whispers are fresh here as I wander through the red corridors, the glare of my father is joyfully absent. I sleep rather soundly in my humble castle abode.
I have explored the library in the Red Keep, however not to the degree that I wished. I should thank you, my friend. Your time at Casterly Rock is common knowledge here in the castle. And having been your host for a month and a half, I am besieged by endless inquiries of the mysterious librarian of Winterfell, Tiresias, the slayer of Ser Gregor Clegane.
It's rather fascinating how they differ. Tommen and Myrcella are mesmerized by the tale, as is the King. The thought of his father-in-law's monster knight falling to a bookworm still makes him howl with laughter. Much to the displeasure of my sweet sister. It has made family dinners much more entertaining. Interestingly, Joffrey is rather quiet on the subject, though I know he's listening closely when the conversation turns to you.
Jaime pretends not to care, but he's inquired on you as well. Best be cautious if you ever encounter him. Ser Gregor was one of the few fighters in the Seven Kingdoms my brother thought capable of besting him. You might have taken his place, though I doubt he'll ride north to challenge you.
Aside from my family, I've had others inquire about you; Lord Arryn, Ser Barristan, both of the younger Baratheons, before Lord Stannis left for Dragonstone. And many others, both high and low alike.
But rest assured, my friend, that I've been most discrete. I've said you like books, good food and you were a polite guest. It helps that I didn't bear witness to your duel. Though I admit, even if I did, I couldn't top some of the retellings I've heard in the brothels, the taverns and the barracks in this city. Every fortnight, we have at least one soul riding in from the west, who swears they've heard it straight from Deep Den. Each retelling strays further and further from the details Lord Lydden sent my father. But it does make for a good story.
I suggest, my friend, should you come to King's Landing again, you best adopt a false name until you're in the relative safety of the Red Keep. Stares and whispers may have followed you to Winterfell, but more will be drawn to you before too long.
I hope you are in good health and I await your response.
Sincerely,
Tyrion Lannister
Postscript: Though I understand your concerns, please reduce the self-pity in your future letters. It's unbecoming.
A strange feeling rose in Tiresias. It was familiar, but it had been some years since he felt it. As much as he savored his past anonymity and wished he could have ended the Mountain somewhat less publicly…it had earned him a pen pal. He had forgotten the simple joy of receiving a letter.
Even if it was addressed to Tiresias Mountain Goat…although honestly, I'd rather a funny nickname than a sincere one. Mountainsbane sounds like a name for a blowhard.
Still, whether he would make good on his threat to call Tyrion the Imp, he would decide another time. He scanned the letter again. All the reactions from the Red Keep's inhabitants seemed in line. Although Joffrey's muteness did give him pause. He didn't like being on the periphery of that little sadist. What was he planning? If anything?
Ultimately he couldn't know that now. Besides if the Lannisters wouldn't touch him in Casterly Rock, it didn't stand to reason that they would try something in Winterfell. Tiresias just made a mental note to stay low when the royal family visited.
It also didn't escape him that Tyrion made no mention of his greeting to Varys. His remark to the Spymaster was placed a good space below his postscript to Tyrion. It was a fair bet that Varys simply removed it.
He wasn't offended or frightened by the invasion of privacy. On the contrary, it made him smile. It felt good to have a suspicion validated. His letters to the Red Keep would just have to be appropriate for both the Spider and the Halfman.
That noted, he placed the letter in his satchel, to be stored later and opened to his bookmark in the Old Tongue tome. He could finish the page before breaking for the midday meal.
Gord was gripping him from behind. Tiresias wormed and struggled. He had been trying to break this hold for the last minute with no success.
"You're wasting your strength, mate," Gord grunted as he held his shoulders. "As I…can do this…"
He swung Tiresias around merrily.
"Or this."
Another twist and his feet were for scrambling for a hold. His energy was sapping quickly. He couldn't keep this up much longer.
"You won't get loose," Gord spat, his own energy fading as well. His grip was still strong though and Tiresias could hear the grin in his voice.
"How can I…possibly…get loose?" Tiresias muttered in between pants. "You're twice as heavy."
"Aye," said Gord. "I'm stronger. Were this…a real fight…I'd snapped your neck by now…but beforehand…you could have broken this…were you not fucking about…"
Tiresias swallowed some spit before reapplying his grip.
"Don't focus on your arms," Gord grunted. "Focus on your feet. Get a firm stand. Ground's stronger than us all."
Steeling his torso, Tiresias planted his feet, digging his boots in the earth. Their clothes and skin were stained with dirt. The rainfall from yesterday made the training yard a mudfield. Which was ideal for close combat practice. A soft ground made for a soft fall.
It was almost worth it to be in the training yard when it was crowded before supper. Gord didn't have time later this evening and so he suggested learning how to break holds. No spars. No easy way to entertain.
"Now," Gord said. "I'm all focused on your torso, leaving your hips loose. You're flexible, aye? Put your right leg behind mine and pull me down."
It was a generous offering. In a real fight, he would have been dead by now. However, he took the practice as it came. It ended quickly for Gord. He had strength and leverage enough to pull the big man to the ground and break the hold. Both collapsed into the mud, trying to catch their breath.
Sitting up, Tiresias wiped muck from his face. He started laughing when he saw the back of Gord's shirt.
"Ginn's gonna kill you, bringing home that mess."
Gord returned his laugh. "Shouldn't be too bad. I try and clean my own mess. Helped me mum with the wash growing up."
"Good thing. She doesn't need another kid around."
His friend grinned. The joy in Gord's voice wasn't solely to him tossing Tiresias around in the mud. The big man told him good news two nights prior. With such excitement, his voice echoed in the training yard. Ginn was with child, with little more than a half year before it arrived.
The following morning, Tiresias definitely noticed something different about Ginn's scent when he congratulated her at breakfast. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but whatever the difference, it meant a pregnancy. Once he detected it, he couldn't believe he didn't notice it beforehand. It was a singular scent. And familiar too. He remembered Lady Stark smelling differently when she was pregnant with Cara. He also recalled a few other times in Winterfell and Wintertown, when he passed other women with the scent.
He wondered if he could smell traces of it on Gord and quickly shut down the idea of testing that theory.
The big man stood and rubbed his arms. "'Nah, she don't. Gods, 'bout ready to freeze though. Are you not…"
He stopped asking the question and just waved it away, walking to the brazier. "I know, I know. Yeh never cold."
Tiresias made to join him. He was halfway to the brazier when he heard his name.
"Oi, Tiresias!"
He turned to see Otis coming toward him, followed by a group of soldiers. He spied glints from coins being passed between a few men, but most were focused on the blonde young warrior approaching him.
Tiresias nodded to Gord, who continued onto the brazier. He nodded as Otis halted before him.
"Aye, Otis?"
The man fortified himself. "How 'bout a spar?"
Despite Lord Stark's warnings of those wishing to test his strength, this was the first challenge he'd received from a soldier of Winterfell. He wondered if Jory Cassel had anything to do with that. Whether the future captain held that much sway over his men. Perhaps it was just due to him practicing at night with Gord. This was his first time in the training yard with the soldiers.
The request was asked politely enough and Otis was usually an amiable man. However, as Tiresias regarded the house guard, he saw a defiance in his eyes. It was more than just wanting to test his strength against the one who felled the Mountain. He wanted to prove himself.
A second later, Tiresias caught why. It was a test to keep his eyes on Otis, for through the chilled and muddy air of the courtyard, with the numerous sweating men occupying it, he caught a very familiar scent from the east. Mal was walking alongside with a group of servants, finishing their work before supper. She didn't pause, but he did feel her eyes toward them.
So Otis saw her…that really spurned him to break the ice and challenge me?
Jealousy could truly motivate a man in many ways.
Tiresias racked his brain to think of an excuse to deny his request. He was tired from the grappling exercise. He had work to do…
But he also needed to fight against various people. He wouldn't be guaranteed a fully rested physique before every fight. The tests against his mettle had to continue somewhere…
A few seconds passed after Otis' request before he nodded. "All right. Training swords?"
"Aye," Otis pointed to an open space, as muddy as the rest. "Meet you there."
As he went to fetch a training sword, Gord eyed him from the brazier.
"Wouldn't be a bad plan to get some leathers. Otis is a talented swordsman."
"I'm sure he is," Tiresias muttered. He withdrew his favorite one, making sure of the grip before walking back. He didn't have a clever remark about the leathers. Over the course of the early evening, he forwent his speed. Now even in his tired state, he was eager to be agile again.
The training yard quieted down. At least in the section where Otis waited. A crowd parted to let him through to the circle. Otis was standing ready. Tiresias leaned the sword against himself and stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders.
"How many hits?"
"First to five," Otis answered immediately.
Tiresias nodded and picked up his sword. He crept forward as the spectators began to call out encouragements. Most were for Otis. Though he did catch a few for him.
He couldn't tell if he preferred this jostling to the silence in Deep Den.
Otis didn't allow him enough time to decide. The guard moved forward and swung his sword, not much for tension. Tiresias blocked it and threw him off. A nice jolt ran through his arm.
So there is some strength hiding behind the shyness…maybe I'm more tired than I thought.
Realizing that, he saw no benefit to dragging this on. Upon throwing the swing back, he pivoted forward and elbowed Otis in the side. Fresh off his practice with Gord, he pushed the winded guard over his leg and forced him onto his back. He tapped the chest with his sword and backed away.
"One."
He earned a little applause for that, but he didn't revel in it. No need to injure Otis' pride more than necessary. The guard stood and regripped his sword, nodding.
"Come on, then," he said.
The next three hits came quickly. The saving instinct that Tiresias found so foreign when he arrived in this country was now synonymous with his mind and body. He saw Otis' path, through his sword, his feet and his eyes. And though he kept his own face focused as to not insult the man, he could have relaxed some as the swings came.
Otis has some strength, but he is no Gregor Clegane. He is no Mountain.
Otis rubbed his left thigh, where the fourth hit had landed. The applause for Tiresias had grown. He ignored it as he waited for the final bout, for Otis to ready himself.
You could grant him a hit. Leave him with a little pride.
After Otis stopped gritting his teeth, he breathed before rushing forward.
What would wound his pride more? Him not landing a single hit or me granting him a pity point?
He made his decision as Otis swung the sword, a sweeping slice at his midsection. A block would have sufficed. He had strength enough, but Otis was rushing forward with such inertia.
Only Jory would have recognized the evasion as he leaned back, dropping nearly to the ground as the sword passed over him. Using the end of the practice sword, he pushed himself up to meet the blonde guard.
A look passed between them and Tiresias saw the realization in his eyes. He grabbed Otis' arm and pulled him past to the ground, over his extended foot. The guard hit the ground face first and Tiresias quickly tapped the back of his leathers, told himself not to gloat.
Give the man some dignity.
"Five," he muttered.
The light applause intermingled with the passing of coins to settle wages. Tiresias ignored all of that and pulled Otis up. The guard accepted his hand, which was a good sign. At first, there was a good chance that Otis didn't realize it was him. The man's face was covered in mud. However, Otis focused on him after and when Tiresias put out a hand, he didn't hesitate in shaking it.
"Good spar," Tiresias said.
Otis scoffed, but a light smile wormed on his face. "Good for you, you mean."
"No, I don't."
"Well…" Otis dropped his hand, nodding minutely. "I'm glad it was you…you that faced the Mountain…you…"
You and Mal…if Tiresias read his eyes correctly.
However, Otis smiled and the sentiment was gone. "Aye, good spar," he said before walking off, wiping the mud from his face.
Tiresias stood rooted for a few more seconds before making his way across the yard. He felt a few pats on his back as he exited the circle. But still he felt even more eyes on him. It wasn't exactly a grand exhibition on how he beat the Mountain, but it was more fighting from a man who shouldn't have been capable of such a deed in the first place.
Coming back to the brazier, Tiresias fetched his waterskin and drained it. He lowered it to see Gord focused intently on the fire, hands outstretched.
"How fares our blonde Otis?" he asked.
Tiresias shrugged. "Muddy, but all right. You could've watched."
Gord shook his head. "No point. I knew you'd win." He turned to the librarian. "That opens the dam for them, you know?"
"Aye…aye, I know." He raised his hands up as well. He didn't need the heat, but it still smoothed his skin something nice.
"Though…must say, I didn't expect quiet Otis to be the first." Gord scoffed softly, rubbing his hands free of the dried mud. "Though, after knowing you all these years...should know better than to underestimate a quiet man."
Tiresias' mind flashed to Roose Bolton instantly. He scanned the edges of the courtyard for any eyes of a servant that lingered too long. But the only eyes that fell on him were a few appraising looks from soldiers not occupied with their drills.
He returned to the flames.
"That's good advice for any man." He chuckled humorlessly. "Even a quiet one such as myself."
The forest was a good refuge for a quiet man. Even alongside a group of men. For the first time since he returned from the south, he accompanied a group of soldiers and hunters as they prowled through the Wolfswood. Gord was absent this time around, but no one questioned his presence. He had earned his keep with the Winterfell hunters years before he came a famous name.
It was a successful hunt, if a little isolating. Though he was amiable with everyone, Gord's absence meant he had no shield for awkward questions. Ultimately, he stayed mute the first night, his ears on the darkness beyond their fire. He listened for anything that crept toward them, be it animal or a Bolton hunter. But nothing came and outside the jostling of the Winterfell retinue, only silence reigned in the Wolfswood.
Tiresias, partaking in the silence, only wished he could share it with Mal and her brown eyes boring into him.
At the end of the hunt, he and the other men stored the bloody skins of two dozen rabbits, four does and a stag onto their wagon, with dried venison for days. They ate the rabbit meat.
As they rolled out of the Wolfswood and saw the castle in the distance, Tiresias sensed the suppressed questions coming to a boil. Not that his companions hadn't questioned him the first day they rode out. But with his curt responses and under their responsibilities of a group hunt, their inquiries tapered out. Now, as Winterfell drew closer and closer, he heard a younger hunter, Hunley, clear his throat.
"Tiresias?" he asked.
He met Hunley's eyes.
"D'you really kill the Mountain with a knife?" the huntsman asked. "Didn't use a sword?"
Tiresias brought his eyes back to the road, to Winterfell in the distance. He couldn't reach the castle soon enough.
"It was a dagger," he muttered blithely. His horse gave an agitated snort. He stroked the neck, soothing her. He had selected the same spotted mare that lugged him through the Westerlands. She was an easy mount and friendly, having seemingly forgiven him for latching her to a wagon for two months.
He felt Hunley's eyes drop to his side. "That one, right? That's the blade what killed him?"
Resisting the urge to face Hunley or cover the dagger sheath on his hip, Tiresias looked straight ahead.
"Aye."
"Can I see it?" Hunley asked.
Tiresias exhaled through his nose. "No."
The short rejection shut up Hunley and the rest of the hunters as they neared Wintertown. Tiresias didn't regret his curtness but it may have caused him a spot on the next hunting trip.
You're in the game now, mate. As a warrior, no less. Part of that game involves indulgence for curious ears, eager to hear of violent exploits.
The smells of Wintertown began to reach his nostrils, along with the sounds. That struck him as odd. He usually smelled the town before he heard it…
Forget the game. It's one hunt and if Hunley or any other man is disappointed with my silence, so be it. I'd rather read and work in my room.
As they rode into Wintertown, such thoughts were pushed out of his mind. The inhabitants scurried around them. Shops were still open and working, though it was now dark. He spied Reben and his daughter poring fresh wax into their molds. Large piles of candlesticks laid in the back.
"The hell's going on here?" one of the hunters asked from the rear.
"Don't know," his friend answered, next to him. "Something happened while we were away…"
Tiresias continued to glance around, covertly sniffing the air. There was a hurry here, but no fear.
It was the same in Winterfell. They entered the castle to find a far busier courtyard than the one they left days ago. Tiresias, along with the other riders, left the wagon to be unloaded and cantered over to the stables, where they quickly dismounted and left the horses to the stablehands.
Giving his spotted mare a final pat, Tiresias turned to the courtyard, trying to find the source of all this activity.
"Tiresias!"
Theon's voice shot across the yard. He turned to see the young Greyjoy jogging up to him.
"Theon, what's going on?" he asked as the lad stopped in front of him.
"Lord Stark wishes to see you."
He stared at Theon. "Now?"
Greyjoy nodded. "Aye, he said as soon as you came back."
Struggling to keep his face neutral and focused on Theon, Tiresias couldn't help but pick up strands of chatter and banter around the courtyard. The words visitors and south filtered through his ears.
He would learn more from Ned than he would eavesdropping on the scrambling servants. So he ceased his reaching ears and nodded to the messenger.
"Thank you, Theon." He hitched his rucksack up. "Where can I find Lord Stark?"
"I'll take you to him." Theon turned and walked to the Great Keep, Tiresias falling in besides him.
The Great Hall was aburst with activity. One half was being scrubbed down and the other half was hosting a crowded and hurried supper. Tiresias stepped around the scullery maids, following Theon as they proceeded to the high table. Lord Stark was talking to Maester Luwin, deeply immersed in their conversation.
They didn't notice Theon and Tiresias stopping in front of them until the young Greyjoy announced himself.
"My Lord," he said, hands folded behind his back. Lord Stark and Luwin looked up. "Tiresias, as requested."
Tiresias nodded. "Lord Stark, Maester Luwin."
Lord Stark nodded back. "Thank you, Theon. Go to Vayon Poole. Offer your services."
Upon Theon's departure, Lord Stark turned to the maester. "You can handle the rest this evening. Any more questions, I'll be free in my solar in an hour."
Luwin nodded to them both and made for the hall's exit, toward the stores, a jotter under his arm. Tiresias returned his gaze to the Warden, who stood from his chair.
"Follow me."
They exited the Great Hall, passing numerous servants carrying furs.
In the direction of the guest quarters, Tiresias assumed. He assumed as well as to where he and Lord Stark were heading. The way to the Warden's solar was the opposite exit and there was only one other place Lord Stark would speak to him in private.
The clamor and noise ceased as they entered the godswood. Tiresias felt the familiar tingle run through him as he followed Lord Stark to the weirwood tree. Though it was night, a torch was not necessary. The stars shone brightly enough. The light bounced off the weirwood as they approached. It appeared whiter than Tiresias remembered it.
Just under the blanket of red leaves above him, Lord Stark stopped and pivoted. Tiresias halted as well, his eyes drifting down to the Warden's hand. His fingers were curled around a letter.
He brought his hand up, offering the letter to Tiresias.
"I received this yesterday," he said.
Swallowing questions that would probably be answered by reading the scroll, Tiresias took the letter, unfurling it under the starlight.
To Eddard Stark,
Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,
This afternoon, a small fleet of three strange ships appeared in White Harbor. Upon seeing the banner of House Martell as they drew to dock, my steward quickly informed me of the Dornish arrival.
I reached the dock in time to meet a man who introduced himself as Prince Oberyn Martell. I inquired on his arrival and his reason thereof. He simply said he wished to visit Winterfell and offered no accompanying information, asides from an assurance that he came in peace.
After which, he declined my offer to host and feast him, immediately leaving White Harbor as soon as his ships were unloaded. He comes riding to Winterfell with two hundred men-at-arms, forty stewards, two children—I assume his bastards—and his paramour.
I hope this raven reaches you in time to prepare for them, my Lord. I was completely unaware of their arrival until they appeared in my harbor.
I beg your forgiveness for my oversight and for bearing this news so inconveniently.
Sincerely,
Wyman Manderly,
Lord of White Harbor
It couldn't have taken Tiresias more than a minute to read the letter. It felt longer though. He raised his eyes to the Warden, whose face seemed very grim.
Tiresias sighed, looking to the stars. "Shit."
Ned snorted. "That was my reaction too. When Maester Luwin brought that to me."
Looking back at the letter, Tiresias found the date.
"Two days ago," he murmured, his fingers tracing it. "It's a fortnight travel to White Harbor. It's a fair wager that they're travelling quickly, so…ten days, maybe?"
"It's a fair guess," Lord Stark answered evenly. "I've sent scouts out. They'll let me know."
He didn't really need to say that. That wasn't what was on their minds.
Tiresias voiced it. "How are we going to navigate this?"
It was Lord Stark's turn to sigh. "We play host. I'm the Warden of the North. You're the librarian of Winterfell. No need to complicate things."
"Sure," Tiresias murmured. He handed the letter back. "I've done enough of that already."
Lord Stark almost smiled before frowning again. He eyed Tiresias plainly.
"He's not coming to see me."
"I know."
"While he's here, I could order a guard in the library to stand watch."
Tiresias shook his head. "No…no, I know he's coming to see to me. I won't pretend otherwise…but I'll carry on as usual. Those translations won't do themselves."
Lord Stark nodded and walked past him, heading for the exit. He heard the Warden pause.
"I don't suppose he ever came up here? In your vision?"
He turned and met Lord Stark's eyes. There was a strength there. Winterfell was his and he wouldn't crumble before a viper. Still, he was tired.
"No," said Tiresias. "No, he did not. Came no farther north than King's Landing. Years from now…Clegane killed him."
That bit of information came out of him only slightly on accident. He didn't regret saying it and it was probably best he confessed it now in the godwood and not blurted it out in front of Oberyn when he arrived...
Still, best not make a habit out of it.
Lord Stark didn't seem surprised. He nodded in farewell and strode from the clearing. He had to prepare for a Prince.
Tiresias wasn't surprised when he arrived back in his room to find a small fire burning in his hearth. Mal looked up from a grey dress sleeve.
"You're back."
"Aye," he muttered, wandering over to her. She met his lips briefly before returning to her needle. Tiresias followed her eyes.
"That dress is a little small for you."
"Little Arya's," Mal said, her needle swift but calm. "I'm told to mend it and only return it to her the day before our visitors arrive."
Tiresias did recognize Arya's scent on the dress, but there were moments when knowledge gained from his enhanced smell could seem inappropriately gained. He scratched the back of Mal's neck gently and went to his desk. He sat and pulled the Old Tongue tome out. Opening to his marked page, he made to continue with the translation. He still had a couple of hours in him before sleep settled in.
The work didn't come. He didn't even open his inkwell, simply staring at the one page for five solid minutes…
Finally he shut the tome. He heard Mal stop as well behind him.
"You know who's coming," he murmured. It wasn't a question, but she still answered.
"Aye, I do," said Mal evenly. She took a breath before returning to the sleeve. "Do you know why he's coming? Asides to see you?"
Tiresias shook his head. "No. He's…he's fairly unpredictable. Obviously."
He got up and came to the hearth, staring at the flames.
"I don't know what his visit means. Not entirely. What it'll look like to others…in the north…in the south. The hotblooded brother of the late Princess Elia Martell traveling to Winterfell, the castle of one who led the rebellion that killed his sister…"
"The castle that employs the man who killed the man who killed his sister," Mal said quietly, her eyes still on her needle. "When will he be here?"
"Hard to say," Tiresias said, shrugging. "Ten days…we'll know for sure once Lord Stark's scouts spot his entourage. He'll probably be quicker. Can't imagine he'll see much to distract him on his way from White Harbor."
"Still has to travel with hundreds of Dornishmen." He heard the smile in her voice. "Magyen told me the kitchen chinwags before I came here tonight. The women in this castle are a wee nervous, but still intrigued by all the strange foreign men coming their way."
He looked to her; eyebrows raised. "Are you intrigued?"
She shrugged, keeping her smile. "I suppose, but not much. I've already got a strange, foreign man for myself."
Tiresias laughed, but it faded away quickly. The silence that was left in its wake was quite pregnant.
Mal heard that silence and met his eyes, her smile fading when she saw his face.
"Tiresias…" she said. "Are you in danger? When he gets here, will you be?"
He considered the question. The answer, the honest one, was on his tongue. But it didn't come out. Only another question did.
"Would you marry me? Before then?"
She didn't even blink. "That doesn't quite fill me with confidence; you asking that now."
"I know it's ill-timed…"
A snort escaped her. "That's one way to put it."
"But I want us to be wed. Before he arrives, before Winterfell plays host to the Dornish…I'd like to call you wife."
Her eyes seemed torn between longing and caution, with a hint of amusement at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. Tiresias swallowed and sat down before the fire. He gazed into the flames and sighed.
"I don't imagine this was the courtship you had in mind when you were scrubbing me down in here," he said.
"No, not quite." It was her turn for a sigh. "Tiresias…it's only been two months."
"I know."
The fire crackled, but he heard her heartbeat underneath it. Despite her calm, it was excited…
"Tiresias, look at me."
He turned to see her; the fire reflected in her brown eyes. Her skin glowed softly.
"What's going to happen when he arrives? Why must we be wed before then?"
Help me, he thought. Help me know. Help me explain.
Tiresias had no idea to whom he directed the plea. The Old Gods? The Seven? The Lord of the Light? He would have accepted any help in trying to rationalize this.
But it wasn't rational. Only a feeling. And that's what he kept to.
"Before I leave Winterfell again, I want to be married to you," he said. "I don't know why…but when Prince Oberyn arrives, he's probably going to set off things that I never foresaw. Maybe not that much, but I doubt it. I want…if he compels me from this place, not permanently, but still…I want to be yours before.
"And it should be quiet. I'm not ashamed by us, Mal. I don't wish to hide it, but…I want to marry you before he arrives. And I don't wish to draw attention to it."
Mal regarded him impassively. But Tiresias knew those brown eyes well by now. He didn't see anger in her eyes. Only the same steel. It gleamed bright now.
She returned to her needle. "I never really wanted a large wedding. Ginn's was lovely and I do like to dance. But we can dance other times…when there's no viper at your heels."
Tiresias scooted closer. "Is that a yes, then?"
"I suppose it is," Mal said casually. "Though if you want little attention to us, it'd be best that I room with Maygen still, until the Dornish depart."
A smile fought its way onto her face.
"Must say…" She almost laughed. "Not the romantic proposal I expected from you. Lousy singer that you are."
"Aye." Tiresias came to her and stayed her hands gently. He cupped her face, feeling her heartrate quicken as she met his eyes. He leaned in and kissed her, slowly, savoring her...
After a slightly unrespectable amount of time, he pulled back, hands still on her face.
"Thank you," he said.
She smiled, but a sadness entered her eyes. The steel was still there, but tempered.
"You didn't answer my question," she said softly. "Will you be in danger?"
Tiresias hesitated before nodding. "Aye…aye, I believe so."
It was the truth, as he considered it. As delightful as he found Oberyn to watch, he doubted very much his motives behind this sudden visit were completely above board. The excuses and curt answers that shielded him from the inhabitants of Winterfell would not work on the brash younger Martell.
He needed to read the man himself when he came. Ascertain the danger. See how much poison the Red Viper brought with him to the North.
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