She was walking to the dying embers of the fire.
She knelt down, reaching into a pouch.
She sprinkled some powder onto the pit and the flames revitalized.
Clark felt the older man walk by him.
He unfurled his cloak to reveal a bundle of sticks attached to his back.
He began building the fire back up, stronger than ever.
…
Clark returned to the side and sat down.
The younger crannogman joined them and they began setting up preparations for dinner.
“Thank you,” said Clark.
“I won’t forget this.
Thank you.” The crannogwoman looked at him as she began to chop frogs up.
“Right now, you’re something between our guest and our prisoner.
I’m keeping your knife until Lord Reed lets you go free.
So behave yourself and don’t make me regret not leaving you to die out here.” Clark nodded.
“I promise.” “Are you thirsty?” “Yes.” She threw him a skin.
“Drink slowly and not all of it.” Clark drank gingerly, taking only two mouthfuls before handing it back.
The fire was brighter than it had ever been before and soon the crannogmen had chunks of frog and onions frying up.
Clark offered up the remainder of his dried beef which each of the crannogs took, though he suspected that they did so more out of politeness than anything else.
They didn’t seem to care for it.
Clark supposed he didn’t seem so enthusiastic either when he accepted his fried frogs and onions for his dinner.
However it really wasn’t bad at all.
Weird texture, but he got it down easy enough.
He was hungry after all.
Also, in the back of his mind, he was thankful for any food from a crannogman.
He supposed he was now protected by guest right.
And now even if Howland Reed decided not to see him, they were still obligated to see him safely out of the Neck and on his merry way.
They weren’t Freys.
In fact, they despised the Freys.
They would keep their word.
He was pretty sure about that.
Clark helped as best he could and before long, they were cleaned and ready to camp down for the night.
He turned to his new companions.
“I said it when I was shouting in the dark, but my name is Tiresias.
What are your names?” They glanced at each other, before the older crannogman spoke.
“I’m Dallan.
The boy’s name is Martan.
He doesn’t speak.” “My name’s Annag,” the woman said.
“I’m still keeping your knife.” Clark smiled.
“It’s lovely to meet you all.
And thank you.
No matter what matters with Lord Reed, thank you for what you’ve done.” The fire went out a few moments later, allowing the moonlight to flood the bog.
Dallan volunteered for the first watch.
Clark settled down for a sleep, chasing away an errant fear that they would stab him in his sleep.
He turned to Annag.
“How long will it take us to get to Lord Reed?” She shrugged.
“A month, at the very least.” “A month?” “Aye.
You’re a real lucky idiot, Tiresias.
He’s usually not that close around here.
Can’t travel well.” Clark laid on the driest ground he could find.
“His injuries from the Rebellion?” Annag turned to look at him.
He laid still, meeting her eyes, reflecting the moon in the darkness.
“Aye, he was injured.
But this season, he’s about touring and inspecting.
His path and ours will cross in one month.
If you behave, I’ll speak on your behalf and see if he’ll receive you.” Clark turned onto his side.
“One month is fine with me.” Annag stretched out her small frame.
“Aye well, it’s not so fine with me or the others.
We have work to do in the coming month, and having on an extra mouth wasn’t in the fucking plan.
So I’ll only say this once: stay out of our way and try not to be too useless.” “I’ll pull my weight.” She snorted.
“I’m sure.
Just remember, that while you’re a helpless idiot in our land, I’m in charge.
So don’t question my command.
Understood?” He nodded, not sure if she could see him.
“I understand.” Nothing more was said and Clark decided to try and get some sleep.
He hoped he could keep up the façade long enough to talk to Howland Reed.
He also hoped that he could be somewhat valuable to this group in the upcoming month.
A bog was not his natural habit and he had to steel himself before falling asleep.
He would not complain.
He would work.
And he would not rise to any bait offered by the crannogs.
He drifted off, trying not to think how soaked his cloak would be in the morning.
…
The cloak remained soaked for the entire month Clark spent traveling with the crannogmen.
It was subject to the moist ground at night and it never dried completely during the day.
The trees were too thick to allow much sun through.
Luckily it was warm enough that Clark went without the cloak more often than not.
He never complained though, at least out loud.
Mostly because the crannogmen never did.
For the first week, they traveled by boat, mooring by night to camp and during the day to inspect the various secrets that they held.
At least that’s Clark assumed.
He mostly stayed in the boat with Martan, who kept a silent watch on him.
The boat was small and having an extra man was quite a nuisance for the crannogmen.
But none of them said a word.
Clark usually sat next to Dallan, while Annag and Martan rowed.
Dallan spent the first morning organizing his poison darts and needles, placing them in easily accessible places on himself.
He gave Clark a few looks as he did.
The message was clear: You may be close enough to harm us, but not before we could kill you.
Putting that aside, Clark tried to be helpful.
He did some heavy-lifting around the camp.
He carried sacks of supplies.
He gathered firewood every night.
Halfway during the first week, he was trusted enough to help row.
Annag’s scorn didn’t disappear, but it did lessen somewhat.
She did trust him enough to toss him his knife the last night they moored.
He caught the sheath, staring at her.
Then she threw him a large fish.
“Your job tonight is to skin that.
Can you handle that, sailor?” she asked, not waiting for an answer before walking away.
Clark gave a silent thanks to whomever the fuck was listening.
He only knew how to skin one creature on earth and that was fish.
His dad taught him during summer fishing trips.
It had been a few years but he still managed to gut the fish and then section it without destroying the whole thing.
It didn’t look pretty though.
He wondered if sailors cut fish often enough so that it looked nicer than his current work.
Was it just fishermen who actually handled and sectioned fish?
Regardless, he placed the fish in the pot when everyone was busy.
They didn’t see his awkward chunks of flesh, as they softened into a fish stew.
Annag came back to a simmering pot and a clean knife, which Clark handed back to her.
Over the next three weeks, as they traveled through swamps on pathways that barely rose above the water, Clark continued his usefulness as well as he could.
He feared it wasn’t enough.
Traveling alone was simple.
He could indulge in conversations with himself using modern language, sing Billy Joel, be inept in certain circumstances and no one was there to bear witness.
With these crannogmen as constant companions, he had to remain on guard and his anxiety was ever present.
But it could lessen though.
It did whenever Clark was engaged in learning a new skill.
The constant companship of Annag, Dallan and Martan put Westerosi living in a closer perspective.
He watched as they purified water for drinking, found tinder alternates for campfires, laid traps, and caught various creatures, including lizard lions, and skinned them.
He also learned all the gross things as well.
He missed modern plumbing with all of his heart.
It wasn’t too bad before the Neck.
Traveling along the road before meant that he could pick plenty of leaves that weren’t poisonous to clean himself.
In this swampland, where many things animal, plant or fungi could kill you, picking something to wipe your ass was a terrifying endeavor.
He asked Dallan (when they were alone) straight out what he recommended.
Dallan gave him a strange look and Clark hoped to God that people actually did wipe their asses in Westeros.
Luckily Dallan apparently did and he showed him a few common plants in the vicinity that were skin safe.
They never mentioned it again and Clark was sure that Dallan was no gossip, although Martan’s eyes were suspiciously more full of mirth that night by the fire.
However, throughout the whole trip, he wasn’t questioned again.
Annag, Dallan and Martan were quite silent in most of their doings.
He wondered if that was because he was there, fucking up the group dynamic.
But as the month came to a close, he guessed that wasn’t the case.
For one, Martan couldn’t even talk.
However, if he could, he probably wouldn’t have said much more than he already did.
Annag and Dallan were quiet as well, but quite relaxed with each other.
Clark was thankful for their indifference.
He didn’t think he could keep his story straight through more questioning.
He wondered how he would conduct himself at Winterfell.
If he ever got there.
A few days after the month ended, they heard a soft whistle pierce through the air around midday.
Martan pulled out a whistle and blew back a response.
They went back and forth a couple of times before the whistle was put away and they continued.
Clark walked up to Annag.
“What was that?” “A message from Lord Reed.” Her voice wasn’t nearly as quietly threatening as it was when they first met, but it was still curt.
“That was a scout.
We’re two hours away from the main camp.” …
In the Game of Stones, you either win or you wait.