Chapter 50: Chapter 50
Over the following week, Tiresias kept a look out for anyone remotely suspicious in the castle. There seemed to be no one out of place. Not in his usual haunts anyways. And the stares that lingered on him…he couldn't attribute them to a spy's gaze. Not after his defeat of Ser Gregor and the business of Prince Oberyn's visit. Every stray eye could just be a curious glance.
He spoke to Vayon Poole. The records for hiring were not meticulous, but the Steward went back and produced a list of every man and woman he had hired in the past year. It wasn't a long list. And all, but a few, worked outside the castle and lived in Wintertown. As spies, they would be impractical.
The remaining few he observed from a distance. Approaching them, even discreetly, seemed ill-advised. It made for scant surveillance. From the battlements. Across a hall or a yard. For only a few seconds each time.
Though these surveys were brief, the few he observed gave no clue that they had any nefarious purpose. They kept to the castle. They focused on their work. They didn't glance to Lord or Lady Stark or their children. After a few days, he experimented and crossed their paths with his ears open, allowing their eyes met his.
The beat of their hearts remained steady. They gave no indication that they were excited or nervous to see him. He didn't feel their eyes draw to his back as he walked away. Nothing suggested that they were meant to watch. They were simply there to work.
And out of the ones he spoke to about his planned return from Dragonstone, the few remaining suspects had no reason to interact with them. None of them spoke a word to the Stark children.
That night, he lifted his head from Mal's chest, looking to her.
Her brown eyes saw his in the dark. "What is it?"
""Mal…have you noticed at all in the last half year…have you noticed anyone suspicious in the castle?"
"What do you mean?"
"I wish I knew…I suppose someone whose…gaze lingered longer than what was natural…someone who doesn't smell right."
That last suggestion was more literal for him. Mal seemed to take her own interpretation of it, giving the matter serious thought before shaking her head slightly.
"I don't think so," she muttered. She scratched his ear lightly. "A few men's eyes linger on me during the day, but I'm left alone. Other than that…"
Mal adjusted her arm. It was trapped under him and probably asleep now. She laid it gingerly in front of her and sighed.
"I don't…" Her sigh turned into a yawn. "I don't know. Don't have your eyes. Can't see what you can."
Tiresias yawned himself, before laying his head back down.
"That's all right," he muttered. "I like your eyes just fine."
It was well past supper. There was only too much that he could do at this hour. He eyed the small tasks for tomorrow that he could accomplish right now. Except he owed the boy his time. He didn't want it to seem like Gendry was interrupting.
But the boy was late. So Tiresias settled for an easier task. He opened an inkwell and bent over a small scroll. In between his investigations, he neglected to respond to his pen pal in the capital. Despite his warning to Tyrion about his mocking moniker, he decided against opening the letter with Dear Imp and wrote the following.
To Tyrion Lannister,
I'm certainly sorry to hear that I disappointed the Prince. That was rather inconsiderate of me. Especially after he made such thoughtful arrangements for me in anticipation of my visit. I'll certainly keep that in mind if the opportunity ever arises again for me to travel to King's Landing.
Prince Oberyn and his merry Dornishmen were an interesting presence in the North. I can only speak as a foreigner, but I've never met two groups of people so similar and yet so different from one another. What am I speaking of? I honestly don't know but it sounds right to me. Thankfully their royal visit didn't result in any fatalities. Just a few bruised egos in the training yard. On both sides.
Though Prince Oberyn was generous enough to give me a ride to Dragonstone, a previous engagement made it impossible to stay long or to visit King's Landing. But it was a fantastic castle on a beautiful island. Rustic but beautiful all the same. Have you ever visited? If you do in the future, be careful walking along the sea cliffs. The wind nearly blew me off. I can't imagine what it would do to you.
I'm genuinely sad that I didn't see you again. But I'm sure the opportunity for a reunion will come at some point. What are you reading nowadays?
Your friend,
Tiresias
After covering the inkwell, he pinched some pounce and dusted it across the parchment. As he waited for it dry, his eyes drew to a blatant error on his part.
You didn't walk out along the sea cliffs on Dragonstone. You merely remember it from the story…
Tiresias stared at his letter for a few seconds before leaning his head back, sighing.
"Shit."
He wasn't tempted to change it. It wasn't worth it. But still, it was an annoyance.
Giving it no further thought, he waited until the ink was dry and curled the parchment, sealing it with wax. The smell of hot wax didn't distract him from the sound of footfalls, trudging up toward the library.
Putting the letter down, he stood and walked to the hearth, just in time to see Gendry enter the library. The young blacksmith nodded quickly and shut the door.
"I'm sorry I'm late," he muttered, coming before him. "I got stuck with a vambrace. Mikken said I had to…"
"It's all right," Tiresias said low and quickly. "It's all right. You're here now."
Gendry nodded, before lifting his hands. "I washed them good."
"Well. You washed them well," he corrected gently.
"Don't that mean the same thing?" the lad asked, slightly defensive.
"One's a bit more proper." He walked back to his desk. "And it will mean something to those who can tell the difference."
"The highborn."
"Aye, the highborn," Tiresias said, turning back. "The ones that pay us our coin."
"People like my father."
Tiresias considered it for a second before nodding. "Aye," he said. "Though your father…well, he's not the most proper of highborns."
He picked up a slate and cloth.
"I do appreciate you washing your hands properly beforehand, but we won't be handling tomes tonight."
Gendry looked confused. "So wot are we doing then?"
Tiresias motioned to the table, in front of the blackboard. He had adjusted the chair, table and board to face the hearth from their sides. Gendry stalked forward and sat down in the same chair that Robb used this morning.
The future lord studies in the morning. The bastard blacksmith in the evening.
It was a fair wager that he never sat for a lecture before. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. Suppressing the slightest of grins, Tiresias walked forward and offered the slate and cloth. Gendry took them both, the question in his eyes.
"I'll say this up front," Tiresias said, stepping back to the board. "I have no experience teaching a person how to read from the ground up. I've taught the Old Tongue, but only to those knew the Common one beforehand. I've handled lessons for the Stark children on occasion and that's it."
He picked up two pieces of chalk and gave one to Gendry.
"All I have to go on is from watching Maester Luwin as he taught the Stark children. And the memories of my mother reading to me. So I'll do my best and I'll trust you to tell if what I'm saying doesn't make any sense. Agreed?"
Gendry nodded, the question gone from his eyes, replaced by a calm determination. He held the chalk correctly in his hand as well. Which made sense. The lad had to have made marks for his work at some point.
Tiresias turned and raised his chalk to the board.
"Tonight, we'll start with the letters," he said as he began to write the alphabet. Both lower and upper case. "All twenty-six of them. If you want, I'll teach you a song to help you learn them."
He trusted Lord Stark to tell him if he heard anything from the capital. Any questions, concerns or condemnations. But over the next month, the Warden made no mention of any contact from the Crown. And if any rumors of Lord Stark's dealings were about, they hadn't reached Winterfell yet.
It certainly didn't help that there was no word from Castle Black either. Every night, Tiresias held out hope that he would be summoned to the Warden's solar. To hear of Mance's imminent arrival. And he would feel that same mixture of relief and dread that he felt upon hearing of the Ironborn attack on Lannisport.
But it didn't come. Not yet. And each evening as he crawled into bed with Mal, a sliver of guilt went through him. When the news from Castle Black arrived, he would have to give her the bad news. She knew that he would leave soon. He simply knew she did. Nevertheless he wondered sometimes when they were alone in the evening when the right time to mention it would be? Would she accept the news better immediately? Or should he work up to it? As she needled by the fire or after they made love?
He didn't think on it much though. Such questions made him feel ill.
Being stuck at home wasn't all bad though. When the timing was right, he paid a visit to Gord and Ginn to see the twins. They were named Brenn and Lanner. At this point, they were large lumps with curious eyes. If Ginn laid them on the bed, they stayed there. Which was a relief. They may have been young, but when Tiresias held them, he could tell that they inherited their father's size.
He mentioned as much to Ginn, who agreed with a sigh. She was more than glad to have them unable to move. As soon as they started crawling, she and Gord would get no reprieve. Even with a grandmother's help.
Tiresias saw them a couple more times in the past month. It was the only time he saw his friend. There was no practice sparring with Gord at the moment. He was a father now and any evening he wasn't required for his duties was spent with his new family. Which Tiresias completely understood.
However, even without his evening spars with Gord, he still found his time occupied. He taught Gendry twice a week. Despite his insistence that he was no singer, he mastered the ABC song and could identify and write every letter by the fourth lesson. Tiresias began reading children stories to him, pausing his finger over words that were easier to sound out. The young blacksmith did his best, swallowing his frustration and pressing forward. He progressed quickly.
When he wasn't in the library in the evenings, he ventured to the godswood. The spars with Jon and Arya were getting vicious. Both were stronger and faster than they used to be. Arya still couldn't touch him when he didn't let her, but she controlled her anger and didn't let her frustration overwhelm her.
At least what little he did see of her. Only a fortnight back in Winterfell and he was subjected to an uncomfortable conversation with the Lady Catelyn. He arrived late one day for the midday meal. As he sat down, Hals came over to him.
"Lady Stark would like to speak to you, Tiresias," he said, without so much as a greeting. "This moment, if you would."
Tiresias glanced to the high table. It was a quiet scene all around. Lady Catelyn sat ever dignified. So did Sansa, though she seemed quite subdued, and Cara, the littlest Stark girl making her best attempt at a straightened back.
But Arya was there as well, her shoulders slouched as she pushed the food around slowly on her plate. With all the energy of a child freshly scolded. Septa Mordane sat right next to her, eating with great economy.
He exhaled through his nose and stood, following Hals to the high table. Halfway through the Great Hall, Lady Catelyn noticed his approach and notified Septa Mordane. The Septa promptly placed her fork down and gathered the Stark girls, who stood from the table with varying degrees of grace.
They walked from the high table toward him and Hals. The manservant halted and bowed his head as the Stark girls passed. Tiresias allowed himself a nod.
"Ladies," he said politely before turning to their escort. "Septa Mordane."
"Tiresias," she responded quite curtly as she passed. He followed their exit to see Arya look back to him with sadness and wounded pride. He gave her a small smile, hoping to pass on some encouragement. But she was ushered away too quickly to see. And besides, he had his own escort to follow.
Hals didn't bother to announce him. It wasn't needed. And unlike other highborns who played games with him, ignoring him to make him wait, Lady Catelyn greeted him immediately as he halted before the high table.
"Good afternoon, Tiresias," she said. "How do you fare today?"
"Fairly well, my Lady. Thank you for asking."
She nodded, but didn't welcome him to sit. Tiresias tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. This didn't feel like an invitation to lunch.
"It's been quite a while since you and I have spoken, Tiresias," Catelyn stated politely. "I don't believe we even spoke when you returned from the Westerlands."
Tiresias considered it, before shaking his head.
"I don't believe we did, my Lady," he said. "To be fair, it was only a short interlude before I sailed to Dragonstone. And you were quite occupied with a royal visit."
"Blindsided, I'd rather say," Catelyn remarked, though not without humor. A slight smile graced her face.
Nevertheless, Tiresias felt the need to address it. "I am sorry for that, my Lady. Prince Oberyn's visit was a result of my actions. It wasn't my intention to add more to your duties. Winterfell's hard enough to run without hosting a surprise congregation."
"There's no need to apologize for that, Tiresias. I don't condemn you for your actions in the Westerlands. And I don't blame you for Prince Oberyn's reaction."
He nodded in gratitude, but he didn't miss the wording in that sentence.
No need to apologize for that…
Tiresias had a pretty educated guess what he was here to apologize for. If Arya's look was anything to go by.
And sure enough…
"How long have you been instructing my daughter, Arya, in swordplay, Tiresias?"
No mention of Jon. He was happy enough to keep him out of this. No need for him to face a Lady's temper. Racking his brains, he tried to think back to the first time.
"I believe it was five months before my long absence from Winterfell, Lady Stark. That was when I started giving her pointers."
"How often did you meet with her? To give her pointers?"
"It depends, my Lady. At least once a week."
If Catelyn was angry, her anger was strictly managed. Tiresias didn't sense condemnation emanating her. It was a quiet power. One used when one didn't have to shout to discipline. He recognized the look in Arya's eyes from his own childhood. His mother could reduce him to tears if he disappointed her. If she just spoke in that quiet tone.
He wasn't a child anymore. Still he steeled himself as Lady Catelyn spoke.
"I didn't believe it necessary to be said. But I'll say it now; you're not to instruct Arya, or any of my other daughters in swordplay or any other kind of martial training. Is that understood, Tiresias?"
Tiresias nodded. "Perfectly, my Lady," he said lightly.
There was no hesitation to it. No point in arguing. After all, this was a medieval world. And a noblewoman had more standing than an academic.
Lady Catelyn pulled her rank with enough grace though. After that simple order, she regarded with something akin to a sad understanding.
"It's hard to be an outsider in the North, Tiresias," she said. "I understand that, believe me. My husband, the staff here, they've eased the difficulty of coming here to Winterfell and performing my duty. I hope you can say the same about your experience here. That we've eased your way in your position and made you feel at home."
Tiresias didn't quite know what to say. It didn't feel wise to interrupt someone saying any personal.
"You're an independent man. Who is able to travel the world. Wield a blade, live in the wilderness or a castle, read multiple languages. You have little bounds, Tiresias and the world is fine for men who live outside their bounds."
Catelyn lowered her tone. "But Arya…or Sansa or Cara…Westeros is no place for women who step outside their bounds. Their paths are decided for them the moment they are born. It's my responsibility to make sure they are well-suited to navigate it, not yours. They didn't need any more confusion to make it more difficult than it already is."
The tone remained civil. He didn't sense any condescension from her. It was simply her duty to raise her daughters in the ways of Westerosi nobility. He didn't like it, but he understood. She wasn't wrong in a way. Westeros did have strict paths for women. For everyone he supposed, but especially for women.
"I understand, Lady Stark." He cleared his throat. "Let me assure that you and your lord husband and the rest of your family have made this outsider feel very welcome in the North. I feel quite at home here and I apologize if that's led me to take liberties that were not mine to take. I'll refrain from instructing Arya Stark in the future and leave her exercise to others unless duly noted."
She nodded, accepting his apology and gestured to the bench.
"Thank you, Tiresias. Please sit. And let us speak on more pleasant topics."
Despite the sad beginning, it was an enjoyable meal. By the time he left the Great Hall, his feelings about Arya were quite subdued. The girl would continue to train on her own. She was too stubborn not to.
He saw it in her eyes that afternoon when he was shelving materials from the morning lessons. She entered the library, not even bothering to hide her footfalls. Occupied with a particularly heavy tome, he didn't look to her as she came around the corner of his row.
"Hello, Arya," he said lightly. "You didn't have a fun morning, did you? Or a fun afternoon, I'd bet. How'd you get away from Septa Mordane?"
"I told her I had the runs."
"That is a handy fallback. Just be careful. Use that excuse too much and they'll feed roots that will clog you up."
"You're not going to stop training with me, are you?"
That question stung. He heard the pain behind it. Once the tome was shelved, he met Arya's eyes. They were quite large and shining with disappointment. He dropped his lightness.
"I'm sorry, Arya. For now, I am."
"For how long?"
Unable to truthfully say, Tiresias shook his head. "I don't know. I've received explicit orders from your mother. I knew I was breaking the rules when I met you and Jon in the godswood. Now I've been told not to. So I can't. Not until things change."
"How will things change? I'm still a lady," she bemoaned. "There won't be a time when she changes her mind. I'll still have to sew and sing. Play the harp. Marry a fat lord and have children…"
That truly disgusted her. Tiresias saw tears forming at the edge of her eyes before she turned away to wipe them. Allowing her a few seconds, he then knelt before her.
"Arya, look at me."
Despite a final wipe, he still saw wetness in her eyes.
"I know it's not fair," he said quietly. "And I know it doesn't help to hear that your mother is only acting out of love. She thinks her actions towards you are in your best interest. I disagree, but I'm not your parent. I'm a librarian and I work for your parents. So I must obey her in this. I'll still help you. I swear I will. But I won't be there in the godswood for you to take a swing at. Not for a while."
She stared. "For how long?"
"I don't know." He listened for anyone coming, especially the Septa. Not hearing anyone, he still whispered. "But keep training when you can. Practice your archery. Your mother seems to tolerate that. And be careful with your brother. Your mother didn't mention Jon, but if she knew, he'd be in far worse trouble than me."
"I know," she murmured.
Reaching out, he squeezed her shoulder gently. "You'll be all right, Arya. You're a fighter. A warrior. They'll try and make you a lady. But they can't make you into something you're not."
For most young women of nobility in Westeros, that would have been a severe insult. But Arya wasn't like most ladies. Her eyes were still sad, but they were also tinged with determination and she didn't trudge out of the library with a defeated air.
Tiresias watched her depart and continued to shelve the tomes. Previously Arya managed to achieve her martial prowess through circumstances that completely upended her life. Had she not traveled to King's Landing, seen her family suffer, rode with the Hound and sailed to Braavos, how would she have fared?
Well enough, he hoped. And besides, life in Westeros was going to be upended very soon, especially in the North. Once the threats of the White Walkers and the Army of the Dead became established, Lord Stark could order martial training for all suitable bodies, no matter the gender. Lady Catelyn would have to accept that. The girl had plenty of time.
That thought stopped his optimism.
Who says we have time though? Annag said things are moving more quickly than they did before. Besides anyone who operates under the illusion that they have time in this world is doomed to run out of it.
His swordplay with Arya may have been suspended at the moment, but that didn't mean his own training had to be halted. In fact, it was time to step it up.
Although he had started training with Gord because the man was kind enough to let him train, he didn't have to beg for spars among the soldiers in the yard. It was more in the late afternoon. But when their drills were done and after receiving permission from Ser Rodrik, he sometimes ventured there and participated in the spars that they freely engaged in. Most the time he won. But he wasn't above losing. And it was a true relief to fight someone else for practice. As much as he was indebted to Gord, drilling against one particular sparring partner was limiting in the long run.
Sometimes he wondered if Gord had any less height or girth, whether he would have perished against Ser Gregor. Even though Gord was not as tall or strong; if he had grown used to fighting a smaller man, how would he have fared against the Mountain?
It was not a thought he dwelled on. There was no point to it. When he was in the training yard, he kept his focus there, on the opponent which deigned to humor him.
However, there were evenings where he found himself wishing to train in solitude. The backspace in the stable was available. Only Jon and perhaps Arya knew about it. But a couple nights every week, he retreated to it, where the echoes of the Great Hall and the training yard could barely be heard. To exercise on his own.
One of these nights, he had finished his pullups and had heaved himself up onto the ledge. He sat there for a minute, waiting for his pulse to slow down, for his panting to cease. Between his breaths, he heard the horses sleeping in their stalls, some breathing loudly like him. That made him smile.
When he had calmed, he lowered himself down and dropped to the floor. He lifted his waterskin. As he drank, he heard the side door open. Two people entered the stables.
He lowered his skin and swallowed as quietly as he could. The girl was stifling her giggles.
"What are you bringing me here for, m'lord?" the girl asked.
"Quiet," whispered Theon, his voice instantly recognizable. The door shut and he heard the latch fall.
"I'll fall behind, m'lord," she said, her tone playful. "Mistress Nera will skin me if the sheets aren't washed proper."
"Mistress Nera can eat shit," Theon muttered, inspiring a fresh wave of laughter before it was interrupting by the unmistakable sounds of a wet, lingering kiss. It continued as they fell on top of a hay pile.
Tiresias sighed. So this was Theon and his girl. He didn't know how far the lad had gone with this one and he didn't really care to know. All he knew was that it was better to leave now than to wait it out.
So he picked up his shirt, throwing it on before slinging the waterskin back on his shoulder, making no attempt to stay silent doing so. He also didn't stop the sneeze, which resulted from the lingering dust.
They must not have gone too far at this point. The rustling and the kissing stopped immediately, substituted by a panicked panting.
"Who's there?" called Theon, sounding both pissed and scared.
Tiresias cleared his throat and brushed his nose as he stepped out. Theon was turned around, still top of the girl. Both were still dressed thankfully. Her face was in shadow, but the young Ironborn's was quite readable in the moonlight from the high window.
"Hello, Theon," he greeted lightly.
"Tiresias," Theon said, swallowing as relief flooded his features. "What are you doing here?"
"Same thing as you, I imagine. Trying to find a moment alone. Privacy's surprisingly hard to come by in such a large castle." Tiresias glanced to the shadowed face and back. "I hope you two are being careful."
Theon sat down, his panting disappearing. "What do you care?"
"Oh nothing, Theon. I'm just one of many who's taken a hand in your upbringing, that's all."
The reprimand was quiet, but it found its mark. He saw the apology in Theon's eyes, though the lad wouldn't admit it in front of the girl.
Fair enough. He's a boy of his time.
He turned back to the girl in the shadows, who continued to stare at him. Under her brunette hair, her eyes were becoming clearer in the darkness. They looked familiar.
"What about you, lass? You being careful as well?"
The girl looked to Theon before meeting his eyes again.
"I don't know what you mean."
Tiresias heard the lie clear enough. "Aye, you do. I'm not asking for details. But you could both do a lot better than pushing a bastard out before your fifteenth year. So I'll ask again; are you two being careful?"
On that, Theon looked down. He could see the red on the boy's face in this light, but the girl continued to look at him steadily. She scooted forward, bringing her pale face into the moonlight.
When she did, Tiresias gave thanks that his own face wasn't too visible with the moonlight coming behind. He was sure his own surprise showed. His breath hitched. He knew the girl looked familiar…
She put her hand on the boy's shoulder. "Aye, we are. I have moon tea. He doesn't plant any seed. We're careful."
He hoped his delayed response was read as discomfort. Not shock or recognition.
Finally, Tiresias swallowed and nodded. "Delighted to hear it."
He turned to the young Greyjoy, who looked ready to disappear. Certain he had ruined the romantic evening, he decided to take his leave.
"G'night, Theon." He turned to the girl. "G'night…"
"Marya," the girl said. Quite naturally too.
Tiresias nodded. "Marya. G'night. It was a pleasure to meet the girl Theon has told us so little about."
On that, he turned and unlatched the side door. He walked across the courtyard, hearing it close behind him. One of the two of them got up and pulled the latch down again.
The springs felt unusually warm that night. Tiresias sat silently, thinking about that face. It made sense. Vayon Poole only told him of the men and women hired. That's whom he asked about. He didn't think, didn't even consider a girl…
What he told Jon, Jon told Theon. And Theon could be induced to tell. A boy of that age. Those wants. Especially if he didn't explicitly say it was dangerous to spread that information.
Funny enough, he felt relieved. Now that he had a face to the spy. And a name. A false one but still…
Don't get complacent. There could be more than one. You can never assume anything from Roose Bolton. That's how you'll end up dead. With a dagger in your heart…
He dipped beneath the waters. Sound stopped. With his closed eyes, he was in a land of silence and darkness. Not the smartest position to be in after learning the spy's face. And her name as well.
Rising from the water slowly, he exhaled through his nose, shooting water out. He wiped his eyes and reached for a cloth.
She picked a good enough moniker. Her green eyes shone true as she gave it. Only a couple letters off from her true name. And though Tiresias expected many extraordinary things to come, he truly didn't expect to see Myranda in Winterfell. Daughter of the Dreadfort kennelmaster and the would-have-been lover of Ramsay Snow.
Pressing the cloth to his face, he sighed. He would have to speak with Lord Stark on the morrow.
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