“And I wanted to ask you…what I should do?
What should I do with the knowledge I have?
Should I attempt to change things for the better?
Should I just leave…
or will you kill me to keep the secret and spare me the trouble of deciding what to do?” …
There was a long pause in the tent.
Howland finally got up and poured himself a cup of wine.
He poured a second cup and gave it to Clark.
He took it and drank with Lord Reed.
It tasted like the wine at his Episcopal Church, which was slightly comforting.
“Who are you?” asked Howland, lowering his cup, his voice low.
Clark sensed the tension and knew that this next answer would either bury him or free him.
He thought back to the letter he found in his pocket.
“I’m someone…” he began.
“I’m someone with far too much power and far too little of it.
I’m sure you can relate.
I know of the calamities coming and I want to prevent the worse from occurring if I can.
And that’s really it.
Anything else I was…I can never be again.” He felt tears began to form at his eyes, but his voice was steady.
“Everyone from my old life is gone.
Whatever I learned for my future is now useless.
Everything and everyone I loved belongs to my old world, which is now closed to me.
Forever.” It was the first time he had said it out loud.
At least so explicitly.
Tears streamed down his cheeks.
He turned away and breathed, focusing on the brazier.
“I’m not from Westeros, but I’m here now and it’s the only home I’ve ever have.
And there are people here that I’ve never met that I’m attached to, probably even love…
strange as that sounds.
They’re going to go through so much pain and I might be in a position to stop that from happening.
So…” He turned back to Howland Reed.
“Should I stop that from happening?
Should I try?” Howland’s eyes were cloaked in shadow.
After a full minute, he stood, placing his cup on the table and walked over to the brazier.
“Come over here,” he said quietly.
Clark stood and joined him.
Every line of Howland’s face stood exposed in the light.
“Who are your gods?” Clark hesitated.
He had been an apatheist for years back home.
Now he wasn’t sure.
It might be whomever dumped him here in the first place.
So he answered.
“Whoever’s listening.
Sorry but I’m not very religious.” “Do you have someone you love unconditionally?” He thought about his mother and father, his older sister.
His dearest friends… “Yes.” “Look at me,” said Howland Reed.
“Do you swear by the love you hold that you’re no enemy of mine or my people?
Or the Starks?” “Yes.” “Do you swear that you’re here to help and not sabotage them?” “Yes.” “And do you swear,” his voice dropping to a murmur, “that you will keep the secret you’ve confessed tonight?
Will Jon Snow remain Jon Snow?
A bastard of Lord Stark?” “I will.
For as long as he remains in danger, I will.” Howland stared into his eyes and Clark tried hard not to blink.
It was difficult though with the heat of the brazier.
He hoped he’d told the truth for that last question.
Finally Howland walked back to his table.
Clark, trying hard not to sigh in relief, asked: “So what should I do?” “That is what I’m going to try and find out,” said Howland.
He came back with a knife.
Clark automatically took a step back.
“What’s that for?” “I’m going to attempt a greendream tonight.
Most of the time, they don’t come if I try to force them, but it’s worth a try.” “And the knife?” Howland held the knife out.
“I need a little of your blood.
Not much, mind you.
Just a few drops.” Taking the knife, Clark hoped he wouldn’t run into too many blood rituals in this country.
He made a silent note to stay away from Dragonstone and Melisandre, whenever she showed up.
If that was possible.
He rolled up his shelve and pressed the knife to the outside of his forearm.
He remembered his friend telling him that only idiots slice their palms for blood.
He only hoped this was the correct safer alternative.
Howland certainly thought so.
Or at least he didn’t say anything when he returned with his cup of wine.
“Ready?” asked Clark.
“Yes.” He drew the knife across and let out a low hiss.
More than a few drops flowed out, but thankfully it was pretty contained.
Howland placed the cup under the forearm and caught a few drops.
Clark thought he heard a slight breeze in the tent but he was probably imagining it.
Howland procured a cloth, which Clark took and pressed to the wound.
When he turned to Howland, he was already drinking the full cup of bloodied wine.
Clark stared at him, as Howland placed the empty cup back on the table and looked at him.
“I’ll speak to you tomorrow afternoon, whether I greendream tonight or not.” “Thank you,” said Clark, strangely not disturbed by the blood drops Howland swallowed.
More just surprised.
Howland went to his cot and kicked off his boots.
“Make sure Annag cleans and bandages that.
I’ll send for you tomorrow.
Good night, Tiresias.” Clark gave a short bow.
“Thank you, Lord Reed, and thank you for listening.
G’night, my lord.” “Send Harn and Null back in on your way out.” Clark exited the tent without looking back.
Harn stood twenty feet away from the entrance.
He looked very irritated.
When he saw Clark exit, he marched right up to him, opening his mouth.
“Your Lord wants you and Null now,” said Clark as he sidestepped Harn.
He didn’t look back, but he swore he could hear teeth grinding before Harn opened his mouth and yelled for Null, who had been guarding the other side of the tent.
Clark arrived back at the camp.
The log Martan had found was now ashes.
He was asleep and so was Dallan.
Annag sat against a stone, whittling.
She looked as Clark approached and grabbed his hung dry cloak.
“Well?” she asked as Clark placed his cloak on the ground and sat down.
“Do we skin you alive for trespassing?” “I don’t think so,” said Clark.
His chest felt very light.
“Shame…what are we to do with you then?” He shrugged.
“He’ll tell me tomorrow.” He smiled.
“Might order us to be wed.
What do you think of that?” She flicked a chip in his direction.
“I think you’re still short one knife.
I could return it to you tonight as you sleep.
Right between your ribs.” “You’re truly a lady.
He did ask me though to ask you, to clean and bandage this,” he said, revealing his cut on the forearm.
“Could you please?” Annag gave it a brief look, before reaching into her bag.
She pulled out a small jar, filled with a brown paste.
She tossed it to Clark and got up.
“Wash it with water first, then spread that paste around.
I’ll go get some clean bandages.” She walked off into the darkness.
Clark could hear her fiddling with her other bag.
He took his waterskin and began to clean the wound.
Despite the bleeding, he was feeling relieved.
He hoped that Howland Reed gave him good news tomorrow.
However, he took pleasure in the partial confession.
It had left him feeling slightly giddy.
That was until he applied the paste to the cut.
It stung horribly.
…
In the Game of Stones, you either win or you wait.