Chapter 55: Chapter 55
Any hesitation he ever had about wrestling a young woman to the ground disappeared by the second time the scouting band got together for their scrimmage. Karsi proved to be a tough wight to wrangle and he couldn't afford to play soft.
Her fighting spirit helped in more ways than one. It was easy to forget that she died and woke again with blue eyes in Hardhome when she was darting about and dodging.
But they succeeded again and again in capturing each other. It wasn't all practice all the time. The third time they met, Benjen brought a map. The wargs hadn't detected anything yet, but they had narrowed down the area. The exchange of information was given in gruff, short answers, but they talked at least. And that talk continued from speculation to actual semantics. How much food they could carry. Where they could hunt. When they approached their target, how many days beforehand they would have to stop foraging for firewood to avoid leaving a trail.
It helped the time pass. And it was a good reprieve as well. As much as a few of them secretly enjoyed pommeling the other side, the exercise was quite tiring. Tiresias hoped that they would be sufficiently energized enough to kill all wights but one. To remember their training.
They seemed to be. It was their seventh session together and they moved well in tandem. Tormund, Kober and Clatton were the brute strength that pushed the wight off balance. Kober and Clatton in particular didn't even have to speak at this point, moving well together. Qhorin, Orell and Benjen cut off the escapes. Karsi and Tiresias gave the tilt to drop it to the ground. Gared went for the legs. Tormund dropped on the stomach. Two others got the chest and the arms. And Macha swooped down with the gag.
Not that's what happened all the time. They experimented with varying numbers and disadvantageous starting positions. But by now, everyone knew their strengths, the roles where they excelled. Strange enough, it all came naturally. No one stepped forth to lead or assign tasks. It was simply accepted that the best person for the job was the best person for the job.
It's all very Free Folk, Tiresias mused as he got off Karsi's leg, who didn't even manage to yell out before she was gagged. He was impressed that the two other Watchmen, Gared and Clatton, went along with it so well.
Though he supposed he shouldn't have be too surprised. Benjen selected these men personally to join their band. Not only black brothers who could survive and range beyond the Wall, but also those who didn't gravitate heavily toward the strict hierarchy of Westerosi power structures. Those who could tolerate the more independent lifestyle of the Free Folk.
Tiresias glanced to the First Ranger. Then again, Benjen had been aware of the coming dangers of the White Walkers for years and the inevitable clash within Castle Black, between those who vehemently loathed the wildlings and those more open-minded. He had probably been searching and culling the rangers ever since. Making sure that those more opposed to the eventual migration were kept away in Castle Black. That he had men like Gared and Clatton by his side. Ready for a day like this.
He selected well. The two weren't friendly with the Free Folk. But their suspicious eyes had lightened in the past few weeks. When they got up, dusting the snow from their sides, they didn't immediately separate from the Free Folk as they had in the first few sessions.
Meeting Benjen's eyes, the First Ranger nodded. Tiresias stalked over to his stoic mount and pushed away the cover. He unstrapped a bundle of kindling and tinder as Benjen approached the Free Folk.
He heard Tormund speak. "Three days we meet again, aye? Wrestle again like fools?"
"Don't see why not," Benjen said lightly. "Actually, it's a little later than we usually depart and we'll miss supper if we set off now. We were planning to camp here and eat before riding back. Would you join us? We have enough food for everyone."
Tiresias kept his face hidden as he got the logs free. They had deliberately set their meeting for today later than usual. The sun was beginning to set. They wouldn't miss supper. They could find food in Castle Black, especially when accompanied by two senior officers of the Night's Watch.
But the Free Folk didn't have to know that. When he turned back, he saw suspicion returning to their expressions. Orell was out right derisive.
"Mance has us marching with you lot. Didn't say anything about breaking bread with a crow." The warg scoffed as he turned to walk away. "Piss off."
"We'll be breaking bread sooner or later, Orell," Tiresias called out. The warg stopped and looked at him. "Or do you plan to keep two separate fires blazing once we're far north? Make it all the easier for the Walkers up there to find us. Perhaps you'll have me set out a third one for myself. I'm no crow. I'm no wildling. What am I to you, then?"
Orell walked back, coming straight up to his face. Tiresias kept his hands steady. No one had reached for their blades. Not yet. Didn't stop the onlookers from stepping forward.
"You're nothing. That's what you are." Orell glanced him up and down. "Just a right pain in my arse. I could have found the Army by now if it weren't for these fuckin' games."
"These games will keep us from failing our mission," Tiresias said, hoping he sounded calm. "What we want to do no one has ever done before. So we need to practice. You know that. Otherwise you'd have stopped coming by now."
Certain that Orell wouldn't stab him in the back, he turned and headed under a tree where the dirt was bare to start the fire. As he began to stack the wood, Benjen cleared his throat.
"Well, we'll be supping here and we'd have you join us if you want. Clatton, Gared, come help me." He strode back to his own mount to fetch supplies. It took a beat, but all the Watchmen turned their backs to the Free Folk. Even Qhorin extended this trust, though Tiresias heard the old man's heart race a little faster.
Glancing up, he saw Kober approach Tormund. "We'll need to start moving if we want to get back to the main camp tonight."
The man spoke far too loudly. Tiresias resisted the urge to smile at the obvious lie. Everyone in this clearing knew that this band of wildlings perched down in the Haunted Forest for the evening. Far below the agreed upon boundary of the main camp.
He caught Karsi rolling her eyes, but Tormund gave Kober a pointed look. The man turned to each of his companions, taking a silent vote. Tiresias sighed in relief.
Indeed, Tormund started forward with Macha and Karsi. The three of them sat, with Karsi even taking the spot next to him. Kober gave a heavy grunt before taking a seat as well. Next to Clatton. Tiresias looked to Orell as he approached slowly, but no Free Folk gave him a glance.
The warg returned his look, his derision not one bit eroded. "I actually like the games a bit. Gives me a moment when I can put down a crow. A crow's idiot friend. But I wish it'd go further. I wish for the day when I can put a knife in all yer fuckin' throats. Stark. Halfhand. All crows…and you. What'd they call you? Mountainfall?"
Everyone around the fire had frozen, the Watchmen regarding the warg, their tasks forgotten. But the Free Folk seated kept their eyes to the fire he was building. So Tiresias continued to set the sticks, letting the warg get it out of his system.
Better here than out there.
Seeing he wasn't getting a rise, Orell spat. "Some fuckin' warrior. I'll be looking for the dead. Rather their company than that of a crow."
He walked off, rather calm. No one attempted to call him back. Tiresias caught the last of him disappearing into the trees. Heard him still walking as he turned to the Free Folk and saw their faces. They didn't seem surprised.
Tiresias reached into his pocket, pulling out his flint and steel.
"I think he's starting to like me."
That got a small and brief smile from Macha. A scoff from Tormund. Nothing from the others. He returned to kindling and proceed to light it. He blew the embers into a small flame and brought it under the wood.
Macha nodded to their provisions. "What'd you bring?"
The campfire was silent, save for the sounds of chewing and swallowing. Dried beef and hard bread were the staples of any ranger. Though they probably wouldn't have these luxuries too far North. Not if they trekked for too long.
Tiresias insisted on something more celebratory though. He had brought a skin of wine and two winter apples. There were more available at Castle Black, but two meant they had to share. Even with Orell's departure. Tiresias used his dagger to cut the apples and pass them around.
He passed on the apples himself. It was hard to ignore the fact that the blade he was using to cut was used to kill Clegane as well. He cleaned the blade regularly. He knew no remnants of the Mountain's blood remained on the steel. Not to mention Ramsay, several hunting dogs, Roose's hunters…
He couldn't help but imagine tasting their blood. At least he hoped it was imagination. Not an enhanced taste that detected even the smallest bits of them remaining.
Their band was divided between those who savored and those that ate with economy. Tormund was the latter. He took his apple slices and chewed them quickly, speaking to Tiresias through a mouthful of fruit.
"You're called that, aren't you? Mountainfall?"
Tormund was the only one who continued to chew. All the others by the fire stopped eating and Tiresias felt their eyes upon him. He wiped his dagger clean and sheathed it.
"Some call me that," he said quietly over the flames.
I could certainly go without it.
"Why?"
Tiresias met Tormund's gaze. "What have you heard?"
Benjen gave a tiny exhale to his right. He could hear the man's thoughts. This was supposed to be an evening to normalize the other evenings going forward. Why was he being confrontational?
He clarified. "I'm just curious, too. Not sure what you all hear of happenings south of the Wall. You seem like you're busy enough without them."
To his right, he heard Benjen's heart slow down. From a quick glance at the circle, no one seemed offended. But they weren't relaxed either. The focus on him, the curiosity…even Qhorin was looking at him with an odd gleam in his eye.
It will subside. Once they get used to you, it will subside. It'll take one evening to work through it.
He looked back to Tormund, who sat propped against the tree. The man brought his skin up and drank. Tiresias didn't need to ask what it was. He could smell it from here and it wasn't the wine they brought. Though Tormund did take one sip of that at the beginning.
Tormund lowered his skin, a line of milk disappearing into his red beard.
"Heard you killed a big man. So big they called him the Mountain." He belched and it echoed loudly in the grove. "How big was he?"
"Big enough," Tiresias said evenly. "Tallest man I've ever met. Or fought. Barely survived."
He gave a halfsmile to the man. "He was no giant though. I've no reason to call myself Giantsbane as you do."
There was quite the silence after that, punctured only by the cracks and pops of the fire before them. Tiresias and Tormund regarded each other steadily, under the gaze of nervous onlookers, until finally Tormund started chuckling softly.
It didn't devolve into euphoric laughter but the group breathed easy again. Tiresias dropped his halfsmile for a true one. Which disappeared quickly when Tormund held out his skin of sour goat's milk.
Every part of his body told him no. But he was here and the chuckling from Tormund was beginning to spread to the other Free Folk as they saw this southerner afraid of a strong drink.
It's for the good of the group, Tiresias. Come on!
He took the offered skin, glancing to the Watchmen. They were amused too, though some had the decency to pretend they were concerned. He lifted the skin and drank. Hesitating now wouldn't make it taste any better.
Tonight he was thankful some for his abilities. His aversion to the cold? Absolutely. His enhanced senses? Not so much. He swallowed quickly, but the taste lingered in his mouth. He managed not to gag. Instead he just emitted a low groan before shuddering, shaking out the single swallow.
That prompted real merriment. Even the Watchmen dropped their frozen faces, Clatton and Benjen with their shit-eating grins. The Free Folk laughing were the last things he saw before his eyes welled up with tears. Blinking them away, he passed the skin back to Tormund who took it back. He didn't drink though. Instead he stared to Tiresias, a wide grin spreading across his face.
"You know why I'm called Giantsbane then, Mountainfall? The whole story?"
"Fuck's sake, Tormund," said Karsi, her laughter turning into a groan. Tiresias didn't miss the eye roll from Macha either. "We've all heard this stupid story."
Tormund shrugged lightly. "They haven't heard it. Have you?"
Not trusting himself not to vomit his sour milk straight up, Tiresias shook his head gently.
This was a lot earlier than I expected.
The redhead leaned forward. "I slew a giant when I was ten…"
The tale was more or less the same as told in Winterfell. But it was an early retelling with more details. It wasn't boiled down to its essence yet.
But it did conclude with Tormund finishing off his skin, lifting it up. Tiresias was up close to see the trickles of sour goat's milk trickling through the red beard. Tormund didn't even wipe them away after lowering the skin.
"And now, you…" he said, pointing to Tiresias with the empty skin. "You will be strong too. With giant's milk in you."
With absolutely no interest in correcting that, Tiresias nodded and smiled. "Thank you, Tormund. I'll need it out there."
His tongue still tasted the sour milk. Trying to ignore it, he looked to the group, black brothers and Free Folk both.
"I don't imagine we'll have many opportunities for such revelry as this, aye?" He looked to Qhorin and Benjen. Their faces returned to their usual seriousness. "No fun chatter by the fireside."
"Nor such big fires," Qhorin said. "Once we're past the main wildling…the main Free Folk camp, we should be quiet. Fires should be kept small. For cooking and lighting torches, should we be attacked."
The Halfhand eyed Tormund. "No place for drinking games either."
"Or songs, I imagine," Tiresias injected lightly, changing the subject. It earned him a few bewildered looks, to which he shrugged.
"I like singing at campfires." He nodded to Karsi and Macha. "You two remember."
They didn't smile back, but the fire reflected a bit more easily in their eyes. It was enough for him. He looked to the flames himself. The group was silent as Tiresias searched for something appropriate.
Shortly, he sat up straight and inhaled.
"The things a crow puts in its nest,
They are always things he finds that shine best.
Somehow he'll find a shiny dime,
Silver twine from a valentine.
The crows all bring them shiny things.
Leave me alone, you big old moon
The light you cast is just a liar.
You're like the crows 'cause if it glows,
You're dressed to go, you guessed, I know.
You'll always bring them shiny things.
Well I'm not dancing here tonight,
But things are bound to turn around though.
The only thing I want that shines
Is to be king there in your eyes,
To be your only shiny thing."
With no lyre, Tiresias hummed the end. No one interrupted him as he ended his hum, looking into the fire. No one spoke for a few seconds after either. It was then that Tiresias realized the sour milk was still on his tongue. He reached for the wineskin and took a few liberal gulps.
Tormund stared at him. "Did you forget the last part?"
Capping the skin, Tiresias shook his head. "Didn't have the instrument to play it."
"I liked it better than your other song," Karsi said. Her eyes met his before traveling over the Watchmen. "Silly old song about silly old crows…"
Clatton started to say something, but Gared hit him lightly on the shoulder, shaking his head. None of the other black brothers took the bait. Qhorin turned to him.
"You won't be singing that or any other song where we're going. You understand?"
"I know," Tiresias said immediately. "I'm just glad I could sing it now."
Qhorin's eyes scanned their surroundings and he understood why. Even this close to the Wall, with the company of Free Folk, it was still dangerous. The darkness had truly fallen in the last hour and they were still in the Haunted Forest.
Tiresias closed his eyes and listened. No great animals stalked near. No bands of errant Free Folk scouted them. And no snow crunched under the weight of a White Walker's gait.
But how would you know? You've never seen one here. How could you tell? What would you truly hear?
Out of a sudden, the woods seemed much more dangerous than they did a moment ago. And he was relieved when they struck the campfire and separated, the Free Folk going north and them back to the Wall. More than one handshake was exchanged.
He carried a small torch as he rode back. But he didn't use it. Trusting the horse to follow the one in front, he closed his eyes and continued to listen all the way back to the Wall.
Holding a letter aloft, Tiresias watched as the candle began to turn the parchment into ash. As the fire consumed it, he dropped it into the hearth.
There was only so much he could do in the Castle Black library. He was seized with the idea to write Tyrion in King's Landing. It had been a long time since he had corresponded with his favorite Lannister. The idea of a letter arriving from Castle Black to the Red Keep amused him. What would Tyrion think?
However, as Tiresias wrote the first few lines, he asked a more important question; what would Varys think? Though he couldn't quite articulate why, he simply didn't want the Spider to know of his doings at Castle Black, if he hadn't already anyway. And he certainly didn't want his excursion beyond the Wall to come under scrutiny.
He sighed at the waste of parchment, but ultimately, he didn't regret his decision. It was a fool's instinct. They were more frequent these days. As he waited…
Tiresias breathed in on a count of three and held it, releasing on one…two…three…
Hearing the rattle of chains as his visitor approached, he knelt before the hearth and brought the fire up. When Maester Aemon entered the library, a fire was on its way to becoming a blaze.
Chett was not with the maester today, but Tiresias knew better than to try and help the old man navigate. He tried once, but Aemon waved him off. He knew the library too well.
It helped that the fire's heat provided some guidance. Maester Aemon came to his chair and sat slowly. He let out a sigh.
"Afternoon, Tiresias."
"Maester." He nodded, out of habit. He didn't bother chiding himself for forgetting the man's blindness. He'd probably nod again, several times, before the conversation was over.
"I'm sorry. The fire will grow bigger in a minute or two."
"I'll survive til then." Maester Aemon smiled. "Though I must say, I'm surprised you didn't have one blazing for yourself."
"I don't mind the cold."
"Then you'll be fine once you leave on your hunt."
The fire grew as promised. Tiresias watched it play on the old man's face. The lines grew deeper. His blank white eyes still reflected the flame back.
Tiresias sighed. "How many of the officers know?"
"Most of them. How many know the whole truth?" Aemon shrugged. "I'm afraid I can't say. I don't even know if I know the full truth. You aren't going out to give the wildlings assistance against the unruly Thenn clan, are you?"
He remembered not to shake his head at least. "No."
"Then most of the officers are being misled…for the good of us all, I suppose. The Lord Commander has a terrible task ahead of him. As does Lord Stark. First Ranger Stark. Qhorin Halfhand. And you."
Tiresias leaned back into his chair, exhaling through his nose. It was all he could.
"You're bringing a demon back to our Wall," Aemon said quite softly. With a lightness that seemed quite inappropriate. He couldn't help but laugh softly.
"We need to capture it first. Crows and wildlings alike."
"You're neither."
"Well, it's going to be a big mess anyway." He glanced to the fire before looking back. "Do you think it will make a difference? Bringing one down to show them?"
Maester Aemon considered it. "I can't say. I've never seen one of them before. I never will…but whatever you're leaving for, whatever's driving the few sensible black brothers to cooperate with the Free Folk, and for them to cooperate with us…it must make quite an impression."
He couldn't meet his eyes, but still the old Targaryen turned to face him.
"It won't convince all of them. You know that, don't you?"
The old man was right. But Tiresias didn't need to say it out loud. Or rather didn't want to.
But Maester Aemon seemed to sense it. He sighed, returning to the fire.
"You'll need to plan for what will happen if those unconvinced remain so. If they connive to influence others. And not just those at the Wall. Do you understand?"
"I do," Tiresias murmured.
He knew Aemon was speaking for the future when he returned. If he returned. There wouldn't be any time or capacity for politics in the Land of Always Winter. He had to survive getting back first. With the evidence. Or else the politics would be useless.
"Are you busy now, Tiresias?"
"No."
"Then I was hoping you would escort me to the aviary. I need to feed our messengers."
After putting out the fire, Tiresias led Aemon out of the library. No snow fell today. He was halfway to the stairs with the old blind maester on his arm when he heard unwelcome footsteps behind him. They were stepping purposely toward them.
Maester Aemon paused. Did the old man feel the twitch in his arm? Or did he recognize the surly steps as well?
Either way, the old man turned, and he with him, to face Ser Alliser as the knight came over to them. Tiresias felt a pat on his arm before the maester spoke.
"Ah, Ser Alliser. Good afternoon."
The surly step it was then. Ser Alliser stopped in front of them. He wasn't alone. Tiresias eyed four other black brothers at varying distances behind the banished knight, all watching him openly. These weren't fresh recruits that were shivering cold in the yard. They seemed quite comfortable in the freeze.
"Maester Aemon," Ser Alliser stated brusquely. Not much of a greeting. His eyes darted between the maester and the foreigner.
The old man didn't let the silence sit. "What can I do for you then, Ser?"
"Not you, Maester," said the master-of-arms with as much politeness as he had in him. "I'm here to talk to Tiresias. The foreigner."
There's another Tiresias, then?
He bit the thought down immediately, trying to focus on his breath. He felt the old man squeeze his arm.
"Tiresias was escorting me to the aviary to assist me in my tasks. However, I'm sure that he can find the time to speak to you and your friends later…"
"It's all right, Maester Aemon," Tiresias said softly. "I'm sure that another black brother could assist you. Don't want to keep the Master-of-Arms waiting."
There was a look in Ser Alliser's eye he didn't like…well, he didn't like more than usual. Whatever the knight had planned, he didn't want the Maester to be around for it. He didn't think the knight would harm Maester Aemon, at least not today. He just hoped the old man would walk.
I said it's all right. Did you hear me, old man? It wasn't a lie.
Whether he heard it or not, Maester Aemon nodded and extracted his hand.
"As you wish." He reached out for the rail, never fumbling for it, and turned around for the steps to the aviary.
"Good luck," he said, not even bothering to lower his voice. Tiresias could have smirked, but he had already faced away from Ser Alliser long enough.
When he turned back, the red-faced knight stepped closer. Tiresias bent his knees just a minuscule. Just in case. The four other men loomed behind him.
"What can I do for you then, Ser Alliser, that Maester Aemon can't do?"
"You can tell me where the fuck you're from. Where you're really from."
Ser Alliser spoke low. This wasn't the bellow he used in the training yard. That amused him. This tone made him nervous.
Nevertheless, he responded quietly. "Essos, Ser Alliser. The Northern bays. In between there. Never had much of a home until Winterfell."
"Winterfell…" The knight repeated low. "Now you're here."
Tiresias swallowed any pleasantries that might have followed. He eyed the knight's hands. They were loose, away from his sword hilt. He resisted the urge to eye the rest of the men. They were far enough away.
Ser Alliser leaned in. "I don't like you being here."
Tiresias blinked freely. "I gathered that."
If your liking was required to stay, this castle would be deserted, you miserable fucking toe.
The knight looked him up and down. "You seem mighty comfortable being here. Out there. Don't mind the cold?"
He resisted the urge to button his fur jacket. He knew he was becoming too loose, too relaxed within the castle. Why didn't he just bear it?
Ser Alliser continued. "Must be strange…to go through the Wall instead of over it?"
Tiresias stared. Wait a minute…
The knight's voice dropped. "Or did you sneak south another way? You wildling bastard."
It was an effort to keep his face calm. The other men still hadn't moved. He took a deep sniff. None of the Winterfell guards were near.
"Oh no," Ser Alliser said softly. "No, you prefer Free Folk. Like a wildling. You know the Old Tongue. Like a wildling. You take to the cold. Like a fuckin' wilding. The Lord Commander was happy for us to kill those that came to invade. 'Til you came along…with Lord Stark. And now him and his traitor brother…we're just welcoming them on through…"
Tiresias met his eyes, trying to hide his racing heart. That was not an accusation he was ready for. He walked too casually. He was literate. Why would Ser Alliser even…
It's more plausible than what actually happened, remember?
The look on the man's face…it wasn't insane. It was just desperate for a rational explanation. The memories of a story told? No. An altruistic foreigner? No…it was more rational for a wildling to go south and clean up. Trick the North into letting them through. Some wildlings were clever enough. They could learn to read…
Ultimately it didn't matter how ridiculous his rationale was. Ser Alliser believed it. And he was here with other men who probably followed his logic. While he locked eyes with the knight, they could see his hands. He couldn't sneak them to his dagger hilt for an attack.
And yet, he didn't feel tempted. His instinct told him to stay still. He had seen Ser Alliser betray someone before. It wasn't open, to their face. It came under a ruse, the the guise of official Night's Watch business…
He exhaled slowly, fog escaping from his nose into the knight's face.
"I'm not from either side of this Wall, Ser Alliser," Tiresias said quietly. "And I wouldn't worry. You wouldn't make anyone feel welcome in this place. As for any other ideas you have about me…I'll repeat what I said before. Take it up to the Lord Commander."
Footsteps came pounding towards him from the staircase behind him. His hand jumped and was halfway to his sheathed dagger when the new arrival shouted out.
"Tiresias! Tiresias!"
Dropping his hand immediately, he turned to see a young boy in black skid to a halt in front of him. The boy panted, trying to catch his breath. Tiresias didn't hurry him. Everyone around him seemed to breathe again.
Finally, the boy swallowed and spoke. "You're wanted in the Lord Commander's tower. Straight away."
Tiresias' heart skipped a beat. If this was what he thought it was…
"Right. Thank you." He nodded before walking past Ser Alliser and his cohorts, avoiding their eye contact. Any smart ass remarks. He imagined the surly knight stomping up to the tower right after his business was through.
He could still hear the knight's breathing as he headed to the main keep. He climbed to the tower, knowing where to go. It was the only tower he hadn't been in during his stay. Giving Lord Mormont his distance seemed appropriate. Especially in light of what just occurred.
Pushing the ruddy, angry face of Ser Alliser out of mind, he came to Mormont's solar. There was no guard or steward outside the door. Tiresias stopped himself from bursting in and knocked.
"Come in."
He opened the door to see the Lord Commander at his desk. With Benjen at his side. He was in his ranging gear. They both had the same calm, dour expression, but the look in their eyes…he saw it in soldiers resigned to their duty.
Tiresias looked to both of them, fear and excitement flooding him all at once.
"They found them?"
"We've received word an hour prior," Mormont replied. "Benjen encountered a rider in the wood and just arrived back."
"What'd they say?" He looked to Benjen.
The First Ranger gave a humorless smile. "She said that they were ready if we were."
Tiresias walked up to the desk, nodding. "All right. All right…when do we leave?"
"As soon as you meet us at the tunnel. Macha's waiting in the Haunted Forest to escort us, just beyond the treeline. We'll ride until we reach the camp. Qhorin, Clatton and Gared are fetching our supplies and horses now."
He inhaled on a count of three. Ever since he advised Lord Stark in the godswood on this course of action, he had anticipated this moment. Going north, beyond the Wall into danger.
Exhaling, he came out of his head. There was no more waiting. He nodded.
"All right, then. I'll fetch my things and meet you there."
Benjen came around the desk and clapped his shoulder, before exiting the solar. Tiresias was left alone with the Old Bear. Mormont looked at him for a second before speaking.
"Well, what else do you want?"
Tiresias swallowed. "Would you be able to hold down the Night's Watch until we arrive back? I just came from a lovely conversation with Ser Alliser. If he had his way, that iron gate would shut after us and never open again."
Jeor Mormont didn't look surprised. "Ser Alliser is a loud man. But he doesn't decide if the gate opens or not. I'm still here. Lord Stark's men are here as well. When you come back with one of them, the gate will open for you."
Those words weren't too assuring. Craster's Keep was long burned to the ground, but Tiresias remembered the end the Lord Commander met in that hut. Stabbed in the back by his own men…
"If we return and discover otherwise…if the gate's still closed, what then?" He had to ask. Couldn't leave that stone unturned.
The Lord Commander raised his eyebrows. "Well…then I suppose you get past the Wall the way you did before, Tiresias. Anything else before you go?"
He was about to leave before he remembered.
"That crate I commissioned, enforced with iron. Once it's done, could you see that it's placed at the end of the tunnel, just before the gate?" He cleared his throat. "Please?"
Jeor didn't even blink. "That all?"
Tiresias nodded. To which, the Lord Commander picked up his quill and dipped it in his inkwell.
"Then good luck." He set to his work. "Try not to die out there."
That got a chuckle out of him. "Right," he muttered before leaving the Old Bear to his work. His mind raced as he walked. Not thinking much. He simply tried to breathe as he made his way to his quarters.
It's time…it's time. It's time. It's time.
He found himself at his bunk shortly enough, kneeling in front of his rucksack. He had been in Castle Black long enough to get here absentmindedly. He had checked everything prior, but he still unpacked and repacked, going over everything. His hands touched the two sheaths on his side repeatedly. One for steel, one for dragonglass.
His rucksack repacked, he slung his bow and quiver across his back. A few soldiers were looking to him curiously. He nodded before exiting the room. There was no time to explain. No time to dally. They had to move. They had to…
"Tiresias!"
Out in the hall, he turned to see Jory coming towards him. He slowed down, but didn't stop either. Jory fell in beside him.
"What's going on?"
Tiresias hitched up his rucksack. "Going hunting."
"What? Now?"
"Aye. Now."
He accompanied those words with a pointed look. They had just entered the yard and though most of the black brothers showed no interest in their conversation, he preferred to discuss this in a less crowded area.
Jory seemed to get the message. Swallowing his questions, the Captain exercised restraint, waiting until they had cleared the yard, until the shouts of the Night's Watchmen were behind them.
They barely turned the corner when he spoke.
"So you're really going north? Now? It'll be dark in three hours. Shouldn't you wait 'til morning?"
"Maybe," Tiresias grunted. "But we've been waiting long enough. We need to get going. Darkness or not. Besides, we'll have torches and a guide."
"A wildling guide?" Jory muttered.
He was thankful for the man's discretion. "That's right."
"How long will you be gone?"
"I have no idea." He listened, but no one was around here. There was less activity as they neared the ice tunnel. "I don't even know how far we'll have to trek. Could take us a few months."
Jory nodded. "I'll inform Lord Stark. I received a raven from him just now actually. He said that all the messages to the Northern houses are ready to go. Upon your return. And your success."
My success…Jesus Christ…
A weight settled in his stomach. It didn't lessen as they turned the corner to see the ice tunnel before them. All four crow members of their trek stood waiting by their steeds. Gared held two reins, one mount for him. One for Tiresias. Upon his arrival, they mounted up.
He stopped and exhaled. Turning to Jory, he held out his hand. The man clasped it.
"We'll be here when you all get back."
"Right," Tiresias murmured. The angry face of Ser Alliser swelled before him. There was no room for euphemistic language. "Just make sure this place doesn't suffer a mutiny. Watch out for Ser Alliser. The North needs Jeor Mormont and the Night's Watch behind him."
Jory nodded. "We'll make sure of it."
Nothing more for it. Just go. Go.
But Jory didn't release his hand. Tiresias looked and saw something in the Captain's eyes. Hesitance…something held back.
"What is it?"
Jory didn't meet his eyes, shook his head slightly. "I don't know if I should say, you going off and all…if it means what I think…you don't need the distraction…"
The Captain finally dropped his hand, but Tiresias stayed quiet. Continued to peer as Jory decided whether or not to say it.
Finally, Jory met his eyes. "In the message, Lord Stark passed on a message to you from Mal. She said it keeps."
He didn't respond for a time. He couldn't. Amidst the snow, woodsmoke and livestock, another scent returned to him. When he pressed his nose against her. He did his best to keep his mind off it. To forget the scent. There were too many risks. Nothing he could do about it.
But as Tiresias stood silent, he remembered it clearly. It went away though. Slowly. Behind him, he heard Benjen move forward from the group.
"Tiresias! You all right?"
"Aye," he called back. "Aye, I'm all right. I'm coming."
He turned back to Jory and nodded.
"Thank you, Jory. You can tell her you told me. See you soon...I hope."
On that, Tiresias crossed to the band of rangers. Leaving Jory with an inadequate message.
No choice on that. We can't have too many details in words. Unfriendly eyes and ears are in Winterfell.
Reaching his horse, Tiresias hooked his rucksack on the side and mounted. The horse barely huffed and he stroked its neck, before turning to Benjen.
The First Ranger nodded, before looking to the group.
"Gentlemen," he said quietly before kicking his horse lightly and leading the way. Qhorin fell in besides him. Gared and Clatton followed. And after that, Tiresias the foreigner.
He took one last look and sniff behind him. Jory gave him a somber wave. But no one else was present to see them disappear into the tunnel.
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