Tubs look to the leader, who nodded.
Tubs gave a Clark a wide-eyed look before stepping through.
Clark was about to follow when he heard the leader speak.
“If I see you again, here or anywhere else, I’ll kill you on sight.
I won’t forget your face.” His eyes were serious.
…
Clark gave him only the briefest of consideration.
The host was three hundred yards away by now.
“I should hope not.
It’s a pretty face.
Have a nice day.” With that, he walked through the gate door where Tubs was waiting on the other side.
Clark started walking quickly, Tubs keeping pace with him.
He looked at the two towers as he walked.
It was a formidable castle and interesting to look at.
If not for the Freys, it could be…well, anything more pleasant.
He could hear plenty of people inside the two structures.
Which made sense.
Walder was a prolific fucker in any case, churning out more Freys than there should be.
He laughed at the thought of Roslin Frey and how the audience reacted to her appearance.
How ugly does your family have to be when people are shocked to discover that you sired someone pretty?
Tubs and Clark reached the other gate.
Tubs knocked on the door, which was opened by a small guard.
He stared at them.
“The hell you doing here?” Tubs pointed to Clark.
“He’s coming through.” The small guard looked to Clark then back to Tubs.
“Why’d you come then?” Tubs looked struck dumb.
He opened his mouth and closed it.
“I…he…um…” he mumbled.
“The big fella wanted him to bring back some wine,” said Clark.
The small guard looked to him.
“He spilled a pitcher and they sent him to fetch some more, wondered if you’d spare some.
Can I pass?
I’ve paid the fee already.” He hoped that last part didn’t sound too urgent.
But the gate on the other side was beginning to rise and he didn’t want to meet any Frey lords this time around.
The small guard rolled his eyes and stood aside.
“All right, all right, go.” Clark stepped through, nodding to the other guards who were holding their own cups.
Christ, what a gig.
“And you, you fat fuck,” he heard the small guard said to Tubs, “You want wine, you don’t spill what you got and go crying for ours.
Got it?
Now piss off!” Clark turned to see Tubs turn red with angry embarrassment before the door shut on his face.
The guard walked past Clark back to the other guards and to his own cup.
He sat down and drank.
Taking a few cautious steps back, Clark watched the new guards for any reaction but they completely ignored him as they went back to their own conversation.
He turned and walked along the castle wall, eventually leaving the Twins entirely to walk along the riverbank.
It took Clark quite a bit not to start running.
He had no idea what possessed him back there.
Was he that angry with the Freys for a fictional massacre?
For being gross?
For the one guard being a jerk?
As elated as he was for getting out of there and for the thrill of what happened, he was also angry with himself.
That was so unnecessary.
He could have died for his remarks.
Easily.
And no one would have cared.
He would have been buried just like his previous possessions and probably without as much care.
He was lucky they didn’t just drop him into the river like Catelyn… He stopped, taking a big drink out of the waterskin.
He was shaking though and a little bit of it went onto his shirt.
“Shit…” he muttered.
He couldn’t afford to waste clean water.
Okay, Clark.
Along with no blind charity and no casually fucking the tavern wenchs, let’s add don’t provoke any ratbags who will actually follow through on their threats to kill you.
Sound good?
Great!
Clark rubbed his temples, willing himself to calm.
Mom’s breathing exercise was also employed here.
In and hold…then out on a count.
It worked as usual.
Soon he found himself walking along the riverbank, calm as the river flowing besides him.
There was an aspect of this that he kept thinking about.
It involved that night at the inn when he avoided the hits from the soldiers and guided them into falling over each other.
He did that on instinct and he had no idea where that came from.
Now he’d been in a few fights before, holding his own in some and getting hurt in others.
Nothing too serious.
But he had never experienced anything like that at the inn.
There was a serenity to it.
It had gone on long enough that he actually got bored and annoyed.
When, during a fight, had he ever felt so at ease as to feel annoyed?
Never as far as he could remember.
His body just knew what to do.
Or he did?
Or both?
Did his mind just… Clark ran his hand over his face.
It was all of him that knew what to do.
It just felt right.
He thought about the note he had discovered in his pocket when he woke up.
Whoever sent it said that they had gifted him with abilities that would gradually reveal themselves.
Was this one of them?
Was he a sly sneaky fighter waiting to emerge?
Or just a lucky fuck who was able to steer a few drunks into each other?
Well, another thing I can ask Howland Reed.
If he knows me…or even meets with me…Christ, I hope this wasn’t a bad idea.
He settled into a nice pace, forcing himself to look on the bright side.
He’d survived the Twins.
Not the easiest thing for an ally of House Stark.
He was a short distance from the edge of the Neck.
He would probably arrive there at the end of the next day.
Then he would try and find a castle that evades unwelcome strangers and a lord who’s good with secrets, hoping he would spill them to a random traveler from a different world.
Clark groaned.
Well, if nothing else, he could at least ask Howland Reed for the crannogman’s solution to preventing bug bites.
The buzzing in the air was only going to get worse on here on in.
…
Clark knew he shouldn’t have expected there to be a clear border when the Riverlands met the Neck.
The ground became wetter and wetter until suddenly he realized he’d wandered into a bog.
Remembering the quicksand mentioned somewhere in the books, he stuck to the high grounds as he ventured further.
He still kept the Fork in sight and followed it to the best of his ability.
He knew however that the best of his ability would more than likely get him killed.
He marked his path into the Neck as best he could and refused to let himself get frustrated.
He didn’t need to find Howland Reed, just one crannogman who would guide him to Howland Reed…or out of this death trap of a bog if Howland Reed refused to see him.
Darkness came before he knew it.
He made a fire the best he could with wet wood.
It was more for the company.
He really wasn’t cold at all.
Plus, the smoke helped keep the mosquitoes away and it could draw the attention of anyone watching.
He hoped so at least.
Continuing along the Fork or what remained of it, Clark came to its end in two days.
He came close to despair, realizing that going into a bog was not the smartest idea.
Until he saw a dock.
Well, it wasn’t much of a dock.
However when Clark made his way to it, he saw clear outlines where there used to be ropes.
No moss covered them.
Turning to the water, he saw multiple exits and entrances to this bog harbor.
There were crannogmen here recently and they had taken some boat off.
He noted his location carefully and walked a little farther into the trees, careful to stay out of the water.
These crannogmen might been gone for good from this spot.
However, they might return soon.
If that was the case and they left something, it would be hung for safety against any animal who would eat it or destroy it.
It might be visible… Sure enough, Clark spotted a hung bag, tied tightly among the higher branches of a nearby tree.
The rope was camouflaged along the green vines that swarmed the place.
He squinted to see it.
He was sure they were more, but he was too tired to look.
He returned to the small harbor and found the one bit of high ground.
It wasn’t dry.
Settling down, he ran over his supplies.
The waterskin was only a quarter full.
He had enough jerky to stretch for two days.
He took a small sip, allowing the water to run over his tongue before swallowing.
He didn’t taste the animal tinge that nearly made him gag the first time he drunk from the skin.
Now it was just warm.
He dreamed of cool alcoholic beverages.
Putting on his cloak, he began to sweat.
But he was more covered from the insects and perhaps a little camouflaged himself.
He laughed at the notion.
What shot in hell did he have of fooling anyone or anything in this swampland?
Hiding from the lizard lions?
Figuring he’d find that out later, he built a small fire allowing the coming darkness to appear a bit more friendly.
Soon he couldn’t see the harbor and then the dock.
He kept the fire burning as well he could, hoping he could attract the attention of his fellow man.
He used all of the sticks and breakable branches in his vicinity.
He resorted to placing moss in the fire.
Time was the only thing that truly peeved him.
He had no idea what time it was, how long he had been awake, or when the dawn would come.
He wished for a watch almost as much as he wished for a full waterskin.
He looked to his dwindling pile of kindling and moss.
Why did he come this way?
Why was he so calm about the fact that he might die here?
Was it the same recklessness that drove him to confront the guard at the Twins or insult the soldiers at the inn or head north instead of south?
Maybe he did want to die.
Who knows?
Maybe if he never saw the Starks in person, it would make giving up so much easier.
He knew he made the decision to try and warn them, but at the same time, he was scared to get involved in the slaughter to come.
He had serious doubts whether he could prevent it anyways… …