He carried the purse in one hand and he pressed his eye with the other until finally he came to the road.
He paused in the tree line, peering at the farm.
There was firelight coming from the inside.
Clark sighed.
All right.
Dear Lord, please don’t let me fuck this up.
…
Checking to make sure that no one was coming on the road, he crossed it and made his way to the door, noting the cart that was off to the side.
He paused before the door.
Judging by the fact that they were still talking, they hadn’t heard him approach.
Remembering where he was, he wondered if he should affect an accent.
He lived in Maine, but he grew in the Pacific Northwest.
He spoke pretty flatly.
He did speak some German though, and a few of the actors in the show were German.
Maybe he could… He grimaced and snapped out of it.
There was no time for that.
And in any case, he couldn’t keep up the accent.
You’re a foreigner, Clark.
From here on in, you’re a foreigner.
You can’t hide it.
So embrace it.
Don’t flaunt it though.
And stop lingering on their doorstep naked!
He took a deep breath and knocked.
He didn’t wait for an answer as he immediately ran to the cart, going behind it.
His bare ass was presented to the road but at least he was hidden from the couple inside.
He waited a little while before the door opened.
Obviously no one visited these people at night.
The man stepped out and peered, seeing no one.
“Hello?” he called.
Clark gritted his teeth.
Oh fuck me, here we go.
“Hello.
Over here,” he called back, trying to put fatigue and desperation in his voice.
It wasn’t too difficult.
The farmer snapped his head to the cart and his eyes found Clark’s.
“Hello.
I’m sorry to bother you, but I was set upon by bandits and I need some help.
Could you help me please?” The farmer took a few steps forward.
“Why are you behind the cart?” Clark took a breath.
“Well sir,” he said before cursing himself.
Shit, don’t call him sir.
The only Sers here are actual knights.
“Well friend, to be completely honest, I’m naked.
I’m no danger to anyone.
But I…I’m naked.” There was a short silence.
The wife came out cautiously.
“Why are you naked?” the farmer asked, sounding very confused.
“I was set upon by bandits.
And being outnumbered and a bit cowardly, I ran into the forest.
When I got out of their sight, I put my coin in a rabbit hole and ran on, until they caught up to me.
When they searched me and saw I had no purse, they stripped me and gave me a light beating before leaving me in the forest.
I think they were annoyed that I had led them on a chase for no reason.” The farmer and his wife were silhouetted by the firelight behind and Clark couldn’t make out their faces.
He pressed on.
“Look, I retrieved my purse when they were gone and I’ve been walking for a long time.
I’m so sorry I disturbed you and your wife’s evening.
But if you had some clothing you could spare, a meal, water or any of the three, I’d be very grateful.
I could paid you for your trouble.” The crickets were the only sound for a long time.
Clark held his breath, realizing he probably should have scoped out a few more farms and seen which one seem the most amiable.
He hoped that his initial feeling was true… The farmer went back to his wife and they muttered to each other before she went back inside and he turned back to Clark.
“No need for payment, friend.
You stay there and I’ll bring you some clothes.
My wife just did some laundry.
After you’re dressed, you can come on in and take supper with us.” Clark sighed in relief.
“Thank you.
Thank you so much.” The farmer’s wife came back out with a shirt and trousers and handed them to the farmer before going back in.
The farmer approached the cart and tossed the clothing to Clark.
Clark quickly dressed, slightly registering the roughness of the fabric but he didn’t care.
He was clothed.
He stepped out and shook the farmer’s hand.
“Thank you.” The farmer smiled.
“Don’t mention it.
You’re tall.
They may not fit well, but you covered at least.” Clark smiled and followed the farmer into the cottage.
He felt the warmth wash over him like a spring.
His eyes fell on the table.
They had already eaten, but the wife was spooning stew into another bowl.
She turned, pointing at the table.
“Come on, sit,” she said, her eyes as kind as her husband’s.
Clark nodded and sat down.
A cup of water was placed before him.
He nodded at the farmer.
“Thank you,” he said, before drinking gingerly.
He knew better than to gulp water down when one was dehydrated.
The farmer sat down opposite him.
“That’s a nasty cut to your face.
And a mark to go along with it.” Clark shrugged.
“Could have been worse.” “Aye, it could have.
Still, we could bandage that later.” “Thank you.” The farmer waved his hand.
“And stop thanking me.
It’s the way of Seven, to look after unfortunate travelers.” A cry echoed from a small cot in the room.
The farmer got up and picked up the small child, patting her back gently.
Clark took a small sip of water.
“How old is she?” “Eight months,” said the wife, as she placed a bowl of stew before him.
“She’s beautiful,” said Clark, his mind wandering for a phrase.
“Seven blessings.” The wife smiled.
“Thank you.” She sat down at the table, sighing.
She looked exhausted.
The stew looked delicious, but Clark didn’t eat right away.
Thinking he looked hokey, but he did it anyway, he bowed his head, folded his hands under the table and began muttering under his breath.
It seemed like a good thing to do in front of his saviors.
Plus he had plenty of experience pretending to pray from his childhood.
When he was finished, he picked up his spoon and began to eat, as politely as he could.
The wife was appraising him.
“Are you a man of faith?” Nope.
Clark shook his head.
“Just on my own time.” “Hmm,” the wife said.
She reached over and ran her finger gently over the cut under the eye.
“Not too bad.
You don’t need a stitch.
But I should clean it.” She got and began putting strips of cloths in the boiling water.
Clark turned his attention to the baby.
“She got a name?” he asked, before inserting more stew in his mouth.
It was really delicious.
“Sally,” the farmer said proudly, rocking her gently.
It was a good thing that the husband and wife were distracted at the moment, because Clark felt a look of shock run across his face and he was sure he looked horrified.
He put his face back to normal before the farmer made eye contact again.
It was one of those annoying things about his memory.
He wasn’t a fanatic about the show.
He really enjoyed it, even loved it, but it’s been years since he read the books and he wasn’t an expert on everything that Martin put into the story or every detail in the show.
However, sometimes he just held on to a certain fact or piece of trivia.
For no reason that he could fathom.
And right now, he remembered.
He remembered why the farmer looked so familiar.
This farmer was the same farmer that would be robbed of his silver by Sandor Clegane.
His daughter was named Sally.
He glanced at the stew.
Rabbit stew.
The same stew that the little babe in her father’s arms would learn how to make.
Taught by her mother probably, who was still alive.
But they would all die.
Sooner than they thought.
Sally in her father’s arms, decomposing… Clark swallowed his stew and continued to eat mechanically.
He knew he had to eat, but still his mind wandered.
He had held onto the belief still that this was all bullshit.
That he was insane for burning and burying his possessions and that these medieval farmers were friendly nutjobs who wanted to get back to the olden times.
But no.
He was truly in Westeros.
Sometime before the show began.
And it was all real.
It was his world now.
He was in Westeros.
He had to live the rest of his life in Westeros…
Son of a bitch.
…
In the Game of Stones, you either win or you wait.