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.
…
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.” …
He turned and disappeared, leaving Clark with the three guards.
Clark backed up a few feet.
He figured they all could use the extra breathing space.
He did his mom’s exercises to calm down.
He wasn’t served by panicking, although he did fantasize, if he was run out of Winterfell, about making his way down to White Harbour.
He could take a ship south and see if he could keep up with a Dornish woman.
He smiled a little.
The answer was probably no.
Anyway, he would melt in the south.
He was more comfortable cold.
It was stupid, he knew, but he was curious to experience a true Northern winter.
At least one without ice zombies in it.
“You came from the Neck?” said a voice.
He came back to earth to see one of the guards looking at him.
He was young, couldn’t have been more than twenty.
Curls of blonde hair stuck out from under his helm.
Clark nodded.
“Yeah.” Damn it, Clark.
Aye or yes.
No yeahs.
“You’re too tall to be a frog man,” said Blonde Guard.
He wasn’t sure if “frog man” was a deep insult to the crannogmen or a good-natured rib.
He answered as if it was the latter, with a brief small smile.
“I’m not a crannogman.
Just passing through.” Blondie didn’t have much to say after that, for which Clark was thankful.
A few more minutes passed before the main guard came back.
He was staring straight at Clark, then he turned to the group.
“You two stay here.
Vics,” he said, referring to Blondie.
“Come with me.
And you,” he turned to Clark.
“Follow us and don’t make trouble.
Hand that knife over slow.” Clark unsheathed his knife and handed it to the guard, hilt first, much smoother than he was able to a while ago.
His months in Westeros have deftly improved his knife skills.
The guard stuck the knife in his belt and marched off with Vics, following him.
Clark walked after him as they entered Winterfell, into the main courtyard.
He knew it was years before the show began, but he couldn’t help looking around for familiar faces.
The guards walked to the other edge of the main courtyard and he kept up.
A few eyes followed them, but they were left alone.
Most others were too occupied with their own business.
Vics and the main guard stopped before a bench on the border of the yard, shielded by a balcony that ran from the wall to a keep.
“Sit,” said the main guard.
Clark did so, sighing internally in relief.
He was quite tired from walking half the North.
He tried not to look too pleased though.
The guards didn’t seem happy to be taking on this additional task.
“We’ll be waiting here until you’re summoned,” the main guard said.
“Until then, keep quiet and stay seated.” That suited Clark fine.
He leaned against the wall and relaxed.
He didn’t expect to be shown in straight away, even with Howland Reed’s letter.
He had no way to tell time.
He could only assume that lunch had passed and that the multiple people stepping out of the big hall, one or two at a time, were petitioners.
They came out every few minutes.
The time in between the exits varied and there were many of them.
He sat for at least a couple of hours.
It was a good thing the courtyard provided interesting sights.
He was happy to sit and take it all in.
The only times when he had been in castles, they had been stuffed with tourists.
He could only imagine showing up here in sandals, shorts and a fanny pack.
There were many people here though.
He saw masons, smiths, weavers, farmers, the kennelmaster, practically too many to keep track of.
The sun began to go down.
As the darkness grew, he felt himself growing more calm and accustomed to Winterfell.
Well…maybe accustomed was the wrong word.
But it was the same thought that occupied his mind during the final mile to Winterfell.
If he had met Ned Stark right away, he would have been overwhelmed and constantly gaping around him like an idiot.
Maybe now he could actually remain focused and talk properly after hours of sitting in the courtyard.
A wagon came through the gate and was halted before a doorway that must have led to some storage.
A few men came out to unload the huge sacks that laid on top of the wagon.
One of the men was significantly taller than the rest.
He was a little heavy too and as he turned around, Clark’s breath caught.
Hodor… Hodor was across the yard and lifting two sacks at a time like it was nothing.
Clark sat silently, absorbing his astonishment, trying not to freak out.
He actually sank into himself a little, as though he was scared that Hodor might turn and see him, realizing that he didn’t belong in this world.
Of course, that didn’t happen.
Hodor finished unloading with the others and the wagon continued to the stables.
Hodor went back into the castle and Clark leaned forward with his breathing exercises, his head down.
If the guards found it strange, they didn’t say anything.
Clark was still focused on his boots when he sensed something coming from his left.
There were mutters coming closer and closer.
It took a second before he discerned the mutters as “M’lord.” He kept his eyes to the ground.
He had to remain calm.
He saw the main guard’s boots leave his periphery, heard the following… “Lord Stark,” said the main guard.
“Halford,” said Ned Stark.
Clark recognized the northern burr instantly, although it wasn’t quite as deep as he remembered it.
He felt Ned Stark’s gaze on him and heard him speak.
“Is that him?” “Aye,” said Halford.
Clark was grateful for a name.
“Has he said anything?” “Silent as the grave, m’Lord.
Sat still too.
We made sure of that.” “Thank you for your patience,” said Ned Stark.
“Both of you.
I’d have attended to him sooner if I could.
You’re dismissed for the evening.
We can take it from here.” “Thank you, m’Lord.
Good evening.” Halford paused.
“Also, his knife.
If you decide he gets it back.” Clark heard him hand the knife over and walk away, seeing Vics’ boots follow him.
He kept his eyes down.
He thought back to his childhood Christmases.
How he would unwrap his presents as slowly as possible to keep the suspense going, the adrenaline rushing.
It annoyed his family to an extent, but it was similar to what was happening here.
He’d watched the whole show, walked so long and now Ned Stark was within earshot and just out of sight.
It was thrilling.
But he knew that he couldn’t stay aloof much longer without being offensive.
So he took a deep breath, sat up and looked to the left, meeting Ned Stark’s eyes.
The first thing he registered was how far away the Warden of the North stood.
He could have sworn that he was much nearer, given how clear he heard the conversation.
Second, he saw that Lord Stark had guards.
Four of them and they looked much tougher than the ones at the main gate.
Not that Halford, Vics and the others didn’t look tough too.
The North bred some hard eggshells and the Warden got the better ones.
There was another man standing next to Ned Stark with graying hair and side-burns that were tied at the chin… Okay, I’m seeing Rodrik Cassel as well…that’s neat.