A/N: From now on, if you want daily chapters, you’ll have to reach a goal.
In the Game of Stones, you either win or you wait.
…
Clark sat in the riverbed, trying desperately to scrub himself.
He supposed he was clean on some level, but without any soap, there was some grime that just wouldn’t come off.
He tried rubbing mud from the riverbed on himself, but that was just another mess.
Finally he just gave up and rinsed himself.
He’d just have to wait until he found some soap merchants, or a bathhouse, or a hot spring.
That could happen.
I’m very near a hot spring.
At two and a half weeks of travel on the Kingsroad, he came upon a castle and a town surrounding it.
That night at the inn, he learned two things.
One; the castle was Castle Cerwyn and two; it was a hundred miles from Winterfell, which surprised Clark.
He’d assumed that Winterfell was much farther north, closer to the Wall.
Apparently, it was more in the middle of the kingdom, which he supposed made sense for the seat of the Warden.
That news had filled him with an energy he hadn’t previously felt in his trudge up North.
He had walked briskly for the next three days after Cerwyn.
Late the previous night, a farmer on the road told him he was ten miles away from Winterfell.
He would reach it today.
That was the cause of his deep cleaning that morning.
He guessed that Ned Stark wouldn’t care whether he was pristine or not, but he still wanted to make a good first impression.
If he was going to sound insane, he at least didn’t want to look it.
Then again, he probably wouldn’t have a choice.
By the look of the approaching clouds from the east, it seemed there would be a heavy rain.
He’d arrive at the gates looking not only insane, but soaked as well.
Not wanting to waste any more time, he quickly dried and dressed.
He also gathered some dry tinder and kindling, along with a few sticks that he tied together and slung across his back with the rucksack.
He didn’t think he needed them, but if the rain proved too heavy and he needed a fire in some shelter, he would have dry material all ready to go.
He slung his cloak over all of that.
It was the first time he wore the cloak in the North.
In the daytime at least.
The autumn temperatures were actually very pleasant.
Thankfully the temperature didn’t drop when it started to rain.
Clark let the rain fall on his head for a few moments before raising his hood.
He grew up with the rain.
He loved it.
But he also knew that he should respect it.
In this day and age, hypothermia would be a lot easier to come by and a lot harder to manage.
However the cloak seemed to do the trick.
His pack and sticks remained dry and he stayed relatively warm.
The rain continued for the entire morning and Clark felt that it slowed him down.
He kept his spirit up though.
Every minute that he delayed arriving to Winterfell was another minute to decide what to say to Ned Stark or anyone else there.
He touched the letter from Howland Reed in his pocket multiple times.
He knew that was a boon, but it might not be enough for any big information dumps or revelations about the future.
Clark sighed and trudged on, wiping his face.
He tried to capture a little of the rainwater but he barely got a drip.
He told himself not to worry.
He was near enough to Winterfell not to die of thirst.
At this point, he was just looking for things to worry him.
He had no way to tell time or distance, but even in this weather, he knew he should be coming within sight of the castle soon.
Finally, Clark came out of a forest and onto a series of vast meadows.
The rain was lessening and if he squinted, he could make out a large grey structure through the mist, a mile away.
He let out a breath and started laughing.
It was Winterfell.
He could recognize it from here.
Ned Stark was in that castle.
So was Jon and Arya and Catelyn and… He came back to reality.
He had to make it to the castle first and he had to use the mile beforehand to calm down.
Not act like an idiot in front of some stern fictional characters.
They were real now and if he fucked up, he could do even worse damage than what he saw coming.
He lowered his hood as he set off.
He needed to feel the rain and clear his head for this task.
Twenty minutes later, he was walking through Wintertown, the same path that King Robert and the Unsullied marched up.
He got a few odd looks; the ones that he had been receiving frequently as a passing outsider.
Thankfully the interest died pretty quickly and he walked up to the castle unbothered.
He stopped a couple hundred feet out to take it in.
This was Winterfell before twenty thousand men marched south for the War of Five Kings.
The large grey walls were topped with soldiers who were young and fit, prepared to kill.
He saw past the gate and into the courtyard.
There were dozens of artisans and craftsman, all working diligently for the oncoming winter.
His eyes fell on the guards outside the gate.
He wondered if he’d be stopped.
He shook his cloak of the excess water and took out the letter from Howland Reed, tucking it behind his cloak.
Okay, Tiresias.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
He began walking in what he hoped was a nonthreatening manner.
He could smell ironworks as he approached.
One of the guards turned toward him.
He gave the guard a brief nod, hoping that pitched him as a trustworthy individual.
It didn’t.
“Halt,” the guard said, walking to block the entrance.
The other three joined him.
Clark quickly scanned their faces.
Maybe it was his bias, but none of them seemed as mean as the Frey guards.
They were in better shape at least.
No one resembled Tubs in this group.
“Hello, there,” said Clark, deciding to start friendly.
The guard stared for a bit, then nodded.
Clark sighed to himself.
Maybe he should have faked an English accent.
Or been a mute.
“Afternoon,” said the guard.
“What business have you in Winterfell?” “I have a message for Lord Stark.” He hoped that wasn’t too brusque and that the Northerners hated conversational bullshit as much as he did.
The guards exchanged looks but they still seemed relaxed.
“Lord Stark won’t be taking petitioners or messengers until after midday.
You may enter the castle then and present yourself along with the others.” Clark swallowed.
“Gentlemen, with all respect, what I have to say to Lord Stark, I don’t think he would like me to say to him in public.
I require a private audience.” He felt the energy shift before him.
It was miniscule, but he could see the minute movements of the guards before him.
One wrong word and he would be taken down.
The head guard spoke again.
“That’s not going to happen.
No stranger is allowed a private audience with Lord Stark.
If you have words for him alone, you can write them down and it will be delivered to him to be read in private.
Or you can stand with the other petitioners and give it over to him personally.
If you wish.” He didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t have to.
Clark could read him easily and knew the best way forward was a firm politeness.
“Gentlemen, I’m afraid that’s not an option.
I can’t put my message down into writing.
It must be said to Lord Stark.
Alone.” He raised his hand slowly, Howland Reed’s letter in his grasp.
“I just came from the Neck.
I have a letter here from Lord Reed for Lord Stark.
He vouches for me.
The Lord of Winterfell is safe with me.
If he cannot meet me today, I’ll wait in Wintertown until he does, but I must speak with him privately.” Maybe it was a good thing he looked harmless.
Or confident.
Honestly he didn’t know what he looked now after months of medieval living.
He certainly didn’t feel pretty anymore.
Either way, the guards did little more than tighten their grips on their weapons.
The main honcho took a minute and then reached out for the letter.
Clark gave it over, hoping he was correct in reading this main guard as trustworthy.
The guard turned the parchment over, observing the lizard lion seal on the back.
He raised his eyes to meet Clark’s and held them in a stare for a solid ten seconds.
“Wait here,” he said, before turning to his fellow guards.
“Keep an eye on him.
I’ll be back soon.” …