Kapitel 56: Chapter 56

The first sightings of the Free Folk camp seemed to sneak up on them. It was pitch black when they arrived. The hour of the wolf. Tiresias smelled the woodsmoke three miles out, but it was a long time before he saw the first fire. It was small, just an outpost. Three warriors stood on their approach, but Macha signaled to them and they stayed silent. One ran north ahead of them.

After that, multiple fires appeared before them. Small enough not to burn through too much wood and to be seen. Not from the Wall and not from farther north. They were riding through a sea of tents, furs and woodpiles. Most of the Free Folk surrounding them were asleep and they avoided many stares, distrustful faces or anything more threatening. He was thankful for that. Though not nearly as much as his crow peers. Benjen turned to them as they rode deeper and deeper into the camp.

"Gared, Clatton, hands off your weapons. Come on now," he murmured.

They obeyed him. Reluctantly, but they did.

"Never been around so many people that want me dead," Gared muttered back.

"We're being escorted through," Benjen answered with more assurance than was warranted. "We're Mance's guests. We'll be fine."

Gared and Clatton didn't look too convinced. Tiresias glanced to the Halfhand. Qhorin hadn't said a word since they departed Castle Black. He had killed more Free Folk than the rest of them put together. These people despised him. How difficult was it for him not to grip his sword as they rode on through the camp?

He wasn't so concentrated on the Halfhand not to overhear Benjen as he approached Macha.

"How far away are we from Mance?"

Macha looked straight ahead as she answered. "The King is camped a halfmile past the center. The rest of our band is gathered there. We'll be there shortly."

Tiresias glanced to the east. The grey light of the dawn was coming too. He'd be more than happy to arrive before the whole camp woke.

A few animals lifted their heads as they passed. He turned to meet the eyes of grey and brown mutts, who observed them quietly before laying their heads down again. They didn't bark, which relieved him.

A dog's bark…three blasts from the Wall's horn…a cold even you could feel…that's how you'll know.

But he wasn't cold now. None of his companions were, though he wasn't nearly as bundled as them. He was the only one not wearing gloves.

He didn't receive any comment on it and they arrived at the camp's center, just as the first rays of the sun reached over the east through the trees. Tiresias felt its small warmth. By now, the inhabitants were awake and preparing for the day. The last bit of their journey was accompanied by stares, mutters and plenty of suspicion.

When they halted at Mance's big tent, they dismounted to a crowd of onlookers. Tiresias followed Benjen's lead and focused on his horse. Their mounts needed all the rest they could get. He was halfway through unloading when Mance stepped through the tent flap.

Macha stepped forward to have some words with him. All the other black brothers stopped unloading and waited. Their stoic faces couldn't hide what Tiresias could hear. All their hearts were racing as they waited. They weren't the only ones. He casted his ears out to the Free Folk and heard plenty that unnerved him. Hands twisting the handles of weapons. Exhalations. And plenty of whispers to go around. He wondered how much they knew beforehand. What rumors they heard. Did they know about the band of crows that would soon come marching into their midst?

Coming back to Mance, he saw the man pat Macha on the shoulder and walk past to Benjen, extending his hand.

"Welcome to our humble camp, crow," he said loudly enough to be heard.

Benjen smiled grimly and clasped his hand. "Thank you, Mance."

Simple enough, but it got the message across. The muttering renewed, but Tiresias heard no more handles being gripped as Mance went to each member of their band, welcoming them. He paused with Qhorin, holding his hand.

"That parley wasn't much of an opportunity to break bread, old friend. It had been a while, hadn't it?"

Qhorin met his eye. "Are we still friends, Mance?"

Mance considered it. "Old friends. New enemies. Then friends again."

He dropped his hand. "The only reason I'm sorry to see you is 'cause I know where it is you're going next."

The Halfhand exhaled, his breath fog in the morning sun. "It is what it is."

"Aye." Mance nodded before trudging over to him. Tiresias met his gaze as well as he could, as the former crow stepped before him. The crowd was beginning to disperse and go about their day. He still heard their mutters as he nodded.

"Morning."

"Morning," Mance responded with a small smirk. He didn't drop his inquisitive gaze as he raised his hand. Tiresias grasped it and shook. Unlike with the Halfhand, Mance released his hand quickly, leaving him to simply regard the strange librarian.

Tiresias broke the staring contest, glancing off into the crowd before returning to their King.

"You found them, then?"

Mance raised his eyebrows. "A bit anxious, are you?"

"Aye, more than a bit."

That got a small smile from the man. "Well, that's one truth you've spoken."

He didn't like the implication, but he didn't have time to question it. Mance turned and headed back to the tent. Tiresias hitched his rucksack and followed with the rest.

"It'll be reversed soon, won't it?" Mance called back. "When you come back with one of them and my people cross the Wall…it'll be under the blades and watchful eyes of mistrustful Northerners, no?"

He didn't bother lowering his voice. It was a simple truth, still Tiresias wasn't used to the directness.

"Lord Stark can only give you the same guarantees you're giving us all now."

Mance reached the tent flap and held it open for him. "Is that supposed to reassure me?"

His tone was light and Tiresias matched it.

"I thought it was supposed to reassure me."

"Fair enough," said Mance as he entered. Tiresias joined his band around the fire, sitting down and holding his hands up for warmth he did not need. Macha and Kober were with them and to his right, Tormund plopped down, rubbing his eyes.

"Morning, Tormund."

The man grumbled as he lifted his skin. Over in the back, he saw Karsi getting up and yawning as she came to the fire. Behind her, Orell continued to sleep. No one seemed eager to wake him.

Tiresias was fine with that. A woman came to their sides with strips of dried venison. It was a meager breakfast, but just enough for guest right. That was his guess anyway. He and his band of Night's Watchmen were seen to first.

Either way, Mance didn't confirm it. And all of them were hungry enough to just eat. They took their strips and chewed silently. Benjen remembered his manners and nodded to the woman.

"Thank you."

All of them echoed the First Ranger, but she didn't say anything. She retreated and continued to work over the fire. Mance took his seat and all eyes went to him.

"Stark, Qhorin, Tiresias…Clatton and Gared?"

The two nodded shortly.

"Well, thank you for coming. I wouldn't worry about the darting eyes that followed you. You won't be here long enough for them to try anything."

"So you found them?" Tiresias asked. His fingers trembled slightly and he willed them to stop.

Mance appeared to sense it though. His eyes glanced down to his side before meeting his eyes.

"We found something."

He was about to ask for clarification when Benjen spoke.

"Shouldn't we have all members of the trek present?" He nodded to Orell in the back. "No sense in repeating it twice."

The air changed in the tent. He sensed the shift in the Free Folk. Macha and Karsi shared a glance. Tormund turned his head slowly to face Benjen and Kober simply froze as he stared into the fire.

The King beyond the Wall gave a humorless smile.

"Orell will not be joining us, Stark. Though if you want, you're more than welcome to try and wake him."

Benjen glanced to the warg in the back. "What's going on here?"

Mance dropped his smile. "See for yourself," he said softly.

No one moved. Not at first. The cold wood popped in the firepit. Echoes from the outside reached their ears and Mance met their stares quite easily.

What the hell is going on…

Without speaking, Tiresias stood with Benjen and they proceeded to the back, past the Free Folk who averted their eyes. He saw Orell on his back, bundled. His mouth open, his eyes drooped…

Doubling back, he grabbed a torch and joined Benjen as he knelt next to the warg. Wary of catching the tent on fire, he brought the torch close.

The pupils in Orell's eyes contracted, but that was the only movement. His eyes weren't rolled back as when he was in the minds of his birds. They lolled to the side, lazily hanging in their sockets. A dried trickle of drool ran down from his mouth. He looked thinner than before and his breath came in rattles.

There must been something in his eyes when he went back for that torch. As he gazed upon the warg, he heard Qhorin, Clatton and Gared get up from the fire. They joined them, kneeling around Orell.

Gared removed his glove and brought his fingers in front of Orell's face, snapping them sharply.

"Orell. You there?"

Tiresias focused on the eyes that couldn't focus on him. Nothing doing. Orell's only response was his rattling breath. Gared sat back and put his glove back on. Benjen leaned forward to give it a try.

"Orell." He lightly slapped his face. "Oi! Orell!"

The tenacious warg remained silent. His eyes unfocused. His breath still a rattle. Beneath that, Tiresias heard his heart beat. It was the weakest pulse he had ever heard.

He turned back, but no Free Folk met his eyes. Mance answered his obvious question with his eyes still to the fire.

"'Pon your advice, Tiresias, we searched the North. All the wargs we could find laid here, staring up with their milked eyes."

He stood with Benjen and the rest followed, watching the firelight leave Orell's eyes before turning back to the fire. There was nothing more to see. Mance continued to speak as they sat back down.

"They combed through the area. Worked our way northwest. We had hoped to find something in the Haunted Forest before we came to the Frostfangs. That would have been simple enough…"

Tiresias placed the torch in the firepit.

"But no such luck." Mance nodded. "No, Orell came back one sunset and declared they had to go into those mountains. That slowed them. Each hidden valley, each winding pass they flew and accounted for…nothing…"

"They marked their progress," Macha said. "Before they set out and as each one came back. Mapped out from the Fist of the First Men. It's why it took so long."

Qhorin glanced to Orell. "So what happened to him?"

Mance sighed. "He was seized. After an hour, he convulsed and writhed on the ground. It didn't last long. But when his eyes came back, they didn't focus. That was three days ago."

"We've been feeding him goat milk through a cloth," Karsi said. "Keeping him going until you arrived."

Gared stared. "Why?"

"They wanted us to see. They wanted us to know," Benjen said softly. "We'll be going out there on the morrow. They wanted us all to bear in mind what they can do."

With little knowledge of wargs and their abilities, Tiresias didn't know how strong Orell was compared to the others that were looking beside him. He supposed he was pretty skilled.

What he wasn't unsure of was just how much stronger the enemy to the North was. When the Three-Eyed Raven found the Army of the Dead from the Winterfell godswood, he was discovered immediately when he came to the Night King. Banished completely from the ravens he was warging.

If he did that against the most powerful greenseer in the world…I don't envy you, Orell. Not in that final agonizing instance. And I'm sorry. I should have warned you…

Not that Orell would have heeded his warning. Anyway, it was a large assumption, that it was the Night King he encountered. They had no way to know. It was just a theory. Still, he had little doubt it was him.

Tiresias blinked to find his hand balled up in a fist. He exhaled and flexed his fingers, facing each one of the Free Folk gathered.

"Where in the Frostfangs was Orell when he convulsed?" he asked quietly. "Given that you've summoned us here, I assume you have some idea."

"He was flying along the valley of the Milkwater," Mance answered. "We had just covered the Skirling Pass. The Giant's Step. Worked our way north."

"Should have started at the Milkwater," Tormund grumbled. "That's the easiest way into those mountains. If the dead were in the Frostfangs, they'd be up that way."

"It never hurts to be thorough," Macha responded quietly. "At least now we know that Skirling Pass and the Giant's Step are clear. We have a way in."

"If they're still clear in a fortnight when we arrive."

Macha didn't answer that and Tormund didn't look happy to get the last word in that disagreement. Tiresias had his own question though.

"Why do we need a way into the Milkwater? Can't we just enter the valley when we come to the Frostfangs?"

"Many Free Folk are buried in that river valley," Tormund answered. "Don't know if they're still there or not. We're not coming to the Milkwater until we have to."

They all looked to the fire. Its crackle and Orell's rattling breath were the only noises in the tent.

Qhorin lifted his skin. "There's lots of valleys south of the Milkwater. And there's few enough of us that we can hide. We'll be fine."

That drew everyone's eye. Upon which, he smirked. "Well, maybe."

"Our lives are in your hands," Benjen said. "We trust you. Whatever you decide, we'll follow."

He said it quickly, truthfully. With no airs about it. Tiresias wondered if he hadn't known Benjen's origin, would he have guessed he was a descendent of the former Northern royalty? That he had grown up in a castle? Perhaps the vocabulary was the only giveaway. The Night's Watch had a fine system of melting the rest away.

Benjen looked to Macha as he spoke. The others followed his gaze. She swallowed her blackbread before speaking.

"The forest is the easy part. It's empty. Once we get to the Fist, we can decide there. Based on rations. Gut feeling." She turned her gaze to Tiresias. "You're the only one here who's not been to the Frostfangs, aye?"

Tiresias glanced around the group. "I believe so."

"Well, lucky for us, from the Fist, across the Milkwater, lies the entrance to the Skirling Pass and the Milkwater valley further to the north. One's a bit more exposed than the other. I'll leave you to guess which."

With Orell lying comatose only feet away from them, it felt wrong to smile. Besides, he had another question.

"The Milkwater lies between us and the Frostfangs..." Tiresias muttered, trying his best to recall the map in the Castle Black library. "So I'm guessing we have a way across?"

"We'll be doing so twice," Macha said. "The Milkwater seeps through the True North like a vein. We'll come across the first crossing five days or so out from here. We'll cross twice before we enter the Frostfangs."

"Will we be able to do so again? When we come back with an extra body?"

"The river has shallow points. We know them," Qhorin responded, scratching his face. He nodded to both Night's Watchmen and the Free Folk. "Believe me, Tiresias. Getting to the Frostfangs is the easy part. Specially if the forest is as empty as they say."

A memory of crows falling silent came to him. Sam and Gilly staring out into the dark. The first time dragonglass fell a White Walker…

That White Walker came for Craster's son. We don't have that bargain with them. It won't come south just for us.

He breathed a little easier on that thought. It also helped that everyone carried dragonglass at their side. That was an advantage they didn't have to discover on accident. As Samwell Tarly did.

A slow yawn escaped him.

"You should all rest," Mance said, before standing. "Macha, you as well. This time tomorrow, you'll be miles away. I'll be back tonight."

Nodding to them, he exited the tent. Grumbling, Tormund stretched before following. Leaving the rest of them with the fire and Orell's blank stare. It wasn't a verbose group and no one seemed to want to break the silence. As Tiresias chewed his breakfast, his mind wandered back to Castle Black. To Jory's message.

It keeps…

Tiresias started into the fire. It had been a while since he couldn't identify a feeling. What he was going through now…he never even…

It wasn't pride. Or joy. Or fear. It wasn't helplessness. He was doing something to help. To save the North. Something concrete. It just…

His eyes went to Qhorin and his mind stopped racing. The old ranger yawned himself and stretched out before the fire. He copied the man, washing down the last of his breakfast with a swig of water before laying his head to rest.

He wasn't sure if he was glad Jory told him. If he was annoyed. He was thankful when his need for sleep surpassed any emotional hang-ups. Another yawn emitted from him as he closed his eyes. The rattle from Orell carried slowly under the fire…

While he first woke, it took him a few seconds to remember where he was. He smelled the fire, the skin of the tent's interior. Heard the outside chatter and activity. This forest didn't seem haunted at all.

Then he remembered. Tiresias opened his eyes to darkness touched by the firepit behind him. The blue light that streamed through the top was gone. He must have slept the whole day away.

Not the only one though…

Orell was still there. Now that he heard his rattling breath, he couldn't ignore it. He even saw the whites of his eyes from here…

Closing his eyes again, he went away from Orell, listening to the others. He wanted to see if he could tell before looking. Every heartbeat was calm. With light snores from a few. Sure enough, when he sat up and looked around, everyone was still asleep.

Well…almost everyone. The one man sitting up by the fire, his heart beat steady enough.

Mance Rayder didn't move as he sat up. Didn't say anything, didn't even blink. But he knew the man didn't miss him moving. He was in no trance. The flames just continued to dance on his lined face as they had that morning.

Careful to move quietly, Tiresias reached for his waterskin. He was surprised by the weight. Someone had filled it while he slept. Well aware that some would call him stupid for drinking out of something he didn't fill himself, he lifted the skin.

After the draught, he found Mance staring at him.

"Walk with me," he said softly, over the crackle of flames. Without another word, he stood and exited the tent.

Tiresias stared after him, but for only a split second. That wasn't a request. And he was being hosted by the man. Protected by him as well. He decided rather quickly.

Many of the others wore their shoes as they slept. He drew some strange looks as he pulled his off that morning. His jacket as well. But he wouldn't do that outside the tent. He pulled on his boots as quietly as he could. They were warm from facing the firepit. He could still feel that.

Macha and Benjen stirred, but all the others continued to sleep soundly. His hands grazed his sheaths before they grabbed his fur jacket. Both daggers were still there. He stalked to the tent's entrance without a sound.

Mance didn't go too far. As soon as Tiresias came to him, he turned and began to walk. Tiresias fell in step with him. The King Beyond the Wall strode leisurely, but said nothing. So he turned his eye to the Free Folk surrounding them.

There was certainly more activity now than there was this morning. Children ran in between tents. Small animals turning on spits. Men and women were sitting by the fires, repairing weapons, mending clothes. He glanced at the fires, thinking back to his guess on the Wall. He was proven right. These fires were small, just big enough to warm and cook, but not enough to be seen. Even from the Wall.

The Free Folk kept to their work, but quite a few of them looked up as they passed. It made sense. Mance was their chosen king. When he came about, it may well be for a good reason.

Tiresias had no idea what that reason was. Mance seemed content with their silence and continued to walk. And most of the Free Folk, who looked up from their work, passed their gazes onto him.

It wasn't the first time he was regarded with curiosity. He didn't avert his eyes, but he didn't let his gaze linger. Still, he felt their stares on his back as he passed. And the more they walked, the more he heard murmurs accompany their stares, spreading from fire to fire.

He finally looked up to escape it, to the stars. It had been years since he spent a night beyond the Wall. It was strange to have so much company for it, but the stars were still there. The air was still crisp. He could feel it pleasantly on his chest.

Wait…

Glancing down from the stars, he saw his mistake. As casually as he could, he began to button his jacket. He barely cleared the second one when he heard Mance speak.

"Finally chilly enough for you?" The man laughed softly. "Don't bother on my account. Karsi told me you prefer the cold."

"I'm not doing it for you," Tiresias responded quietly. He finished buttoning without explaining, but Mance seemed to understand.

"Hmm," he said, glancing over the sea of campfires. "Well, it won't stop their stares."

"Might stop their whispers." He shrugged. "Just for a bit."

"That's a small hope."

They came upon a babe's wailing. Her wails were scratched and raspy. Tiresias looked to the wailing child. His mother held her before the fire, rubbing her back, but she didn't look to her daughter and her raspy breaths. Instead, she stared into the flames, her eyes dulled as she continued to move her hand back and forth slowly. Her heart beat quite calmly…

Tiresias came back to the snow in front of him. Trying not to think of Mal. Of her last message.

"That won't be the only babe that will die tonight."

Mance said it calmly, facing forward. Continuing to walk. Tiresias could only join him, tear his eyes from the dulled woman as she cradled her lost daughter. The fading cries sounded behind them.

"My people can't stay here much longer." Mance finally looked to him. "There's no place inland this side of the Wall that can support a camp this size for this long. The hunters have to travel far to find game. The rivers are fished clean."

He managed a small smile.

"And it's too cold to garden."

It was a sad jape. Tiresias couldn't return the smile. His ears were too good. Mance couldn't hear it anymore, but the child's rattling cries still echoed behind him. The small jerky that Mance spared for their guest right…it was invaluable tonight in the cold.

Tiresias turned to Mance, speaking lowly. "Our supplies, what we brought from Castle Black…"

"Your supplies won't be touched," Mance said softly. "You'll have them when you set out tomorrow."

It was a practical question. Still, he couldn't help the sliver of shame.

"Apologies."

"It's a fair question. There are those who would take what you've brought with you. It's why I had Macha escort you through the night, with fewer eyes on your packs. It's why you'll leave tomorrow at dawn and I'll be riding with you until the edge…but more Free Folk know where you're going and why. They've seen the terror themselves. Fought it. Burned their loved ones in the aftermath. What you and the others plan to do…I've made sure that it's been filtered through the camp. We'll be waiting for you to come back."

He met Tiresias' eye. "Just do so quickly."

No need to tell me. I've seen what will happen if the Free Folk and the Wall come to blows. Only this time, it won't be Stannis charging to cut through your army. It'll be Northerners only too happy to slaughter you.

He didn't say anything. Underneath the noise of the camp, the dying babes and crackling fires, he heard the man's pulse beat steadily. There was no subterfuge here. The Free Folk would stay put, but not for long.

Without Mance offering a deadline, Tiresias didn't ask how much longer the Free Folk could hold off. Probably no more than a few months. There was no doubt in his mind that Mance and the other leaders were considering alternate options for getting south. How many Free Folk have already scaled the Wall?

Murmurs began rolling through from the east. For the first time, Tiresias felt the stares leave him and the King. He followed the glances through the darkness and woodsmoke, placing his hands on both of his daggers, dragonglass and steel alike.

But the temperature didn't drop. So far as he could feel it.

"Come now, Tiresias. It's all right," said Mance to his side. He reached up and patted him on the shoulder. "That's not the excitement you'll see when they come."

A group of Free Folk were coming through. Through the crowd, Tiresias smelled blood and all sorts of animal fur; rabbit, badger, squirrel…

"The return of a hunting party." The King walked on. Tiresias joined him before realizing his hands were still on his daggers. He dropped them quickly. "We've staggered them out to get consistent returns."

He eyed back to their path. "They've arrived too late for some…but others will be saved tonight."

Thankfully it didn't turn into a stampede. Not every fire sent a runner to see what they could get from the party. He spotted a few hunters trailing off to embrace a welcoming pair of arms.

That won't be the case when we return here. If we even do…It'll be a wide berth to us and the wight we're hauling back. Thank the gods. There'll be little time once we're back…

"Oi, Mance!"

They stopped to see one of the hunters approaching them, lowering her hood as she did. She passed numerous campfires, the flames of which caught her red hair.

Tiresias realized his mouth was open and closed it before she stopped in front of them.

"Ygritte," Mance greeted, nodding. "How far did you lot travel this time?"

"Got lucky." She held up a bundle of rabbits strung together. "Came across a small colony only twenty miles out. Got all we could carry there."

Mance eyed the dead rabbits. "You manage to get a doe and a buck?"

Ygritte spat, shaking her head. "Nah. The two who discovered the nest…fuckin' idiots. Didn't stop to think we could breed more meat out of them."

That warranted a disappointed sigh from the King. "Well, next time then. We'll pass it on to the other parties. Set traps. Get ourselves a regular supply. Be a while before the kits are good meat though."

"What else is there to do 'round here?" On that, she finally eyed Tiresias, who nodded politely. She didn't return it, only glancing back to Mance.

Rayder nodded to him. "Ygritte, this is Tiresias. Tiresias, Ygritte."

Tiresias offered his hand. "Hello."

Ygritte stared. "You're Tiresias?"

"Aye," he said quietly, nodding. "Aye, that's me."

"You killed a mountain man or something? Gave us the glass?"

Resisting a humorless smirk, Tiresias keep his face neutral. "Something like that."

Her eyes lowered to his hand, still out and offered. She reached and shook it once before letting go.

He cleared his throat. "You an archer?"

She stared at him like he was a moron. "Aye. Did the bow and quiver give it away?"

Tiresias pointed to her hand. "You've a callus between your forefinger and your middle." He couldn't help but laugh softly. "And aye, the bow and quiver helped."

He shared a glance with Mance, but the man didn't join his light laughter. Not that he blamed him.

Looking back, he nodded to the rabbits. "You shoot all those yourself?"

"Three of them," she responded, before reaching behind her. She extracted an arrow from her quiver and held it before him.

Looking to the arrowhead, he saw the purple and blue light gleam in the glow of the surrounding campfires.

"I have two of these with me. Always." She held it up. "I used to have one more, but it went in between a pair of blue eyes."

Tiresias took in the arrow again. "How'd you know which arrow is which when you draw?"

"Feathers are sheared different." She drew her finger across the end and placed the arrow back in the quiver, looking him in the eye. "You should do the same before you head out. The dead don't wait for you to find the right arrow."

"No, I don't imagine they do," Tiresias muttered. "Thank you."

Ygritte gave him a probing look before looking to Mance. "This really him, Mance?"

"Aye, Ygritte," Mance said, with a small smile. "It really is."

Not even bothering to hide her disappointment, Ygritte swung the rabbits over her shoulder and walked off, joining the tail end of the hunting party as it continued through the camp. Tiresias watched her go.

A little too long. When he turned, Mance had that knowing smile on his face and he didn't walk on. Just looked back and forth between him and Ygritte's disappearing frame.

"Tell me true, Tiresias," he said softly. "Do you know the name of everyone here in this camp? Every Free Folk? As you did Karsi? As you did me?"

"No. I told you that." Tiresias said shortly. With complete honesty.

Mance glanced to Ygritte again. "But you knew hers…"

"Only a few I know." He shrugged. "And they tended to gather round you. So I…ended up learning more than what was polite."

Would you believe me if I said I know her future love?

"And how did a man from Essos end up learning all that?"

The question was asked quietly. Politely. But Tiresias heard the steel underneath. He was in the true North now. The games and evasions he played in the south. In the Dreadfort. In Casterly Rock. In Winterfell…they wouldn't help here.

Tiresias exhaled through his nose.

"I assume that Karsi, Macha, Boren and Collum…they all told you what I said to them that night."

"You introduced yourself as a prophet."

"A blind prophet. Of little substance," Tiresias corrected cautiously. "One future I foresaw. One I'm trying desperately to prevent. If you're looking for a better explanation, then I'm sorry. I don't have one."

Mance gave a small smirk before looking off. "Look around you, Tiresias. You see this camp? Hear its cries? Smell its fear?"

He came back to him. "Do you think false modesty has any use for us here?"

Tiresias met his eyes. "More so than any more prophecies. I saw what I saw. Nothing more and I meant that. I won't see anything else from any other futures in Westeros. Not ever again."

"You're quite sure of that."

"I am," he said quietly. "It's one of the only things I am sure about."

The silence between them didn't last long. Mance turned and proceeded back the way they came. But it wasn't the end of their talk. As soon as Tiresias fell into step, Mance spoke again.

"And this, Tiresias?" He nodded off to the surrounding fires. "Are you sure of all this?"

Tiresias shook his head. "No."

The King beyond the Wall turned his head sharply. "Well, you need to be. This is your doing, Tiresias. Under the advice of an unsubstantial prophet, we're putting all our lives at risk. Prolonging our passage south. Camping in these conditions. Passing under the eyes of the Night's Watch, most of whom would slaughter us if they could. And straight into the North, where we'll be under Lord Stark's precarious protection. We'll give up most our weapons. Say goodbye to children as they're taken hostage. And trust we won't be hunted down when Lord Stark is busy with his duties as Warden. All this because you had a vision and what you saw was worse than that. It was worse, aye?"

He didn't raise his voice for any of that. Didn't even break his step. Tiresias didn't have the gumption to look away. He merely nodded.

"Aye, it was worse."

Mance turned back to his front. "So be sure, then. As you walk now. When you leave to find one of them. When you come back. And when you're standing on top of the Wall, watching us march through in the freezing cold. Be sure of it. All of this. Of what you did."

They walked back in silence. Tiresias was thankful for it. When he saw Mance's tent in the distance, he inhaled slowly on a count.

"Orell should be killed and burned tonight," he said softly. "He's not going to recover."

He looked over, but Mance didn't meet his eyes. He didn't seem surprised though.

"Are you sure of that?" he asked.

"I am." He stopped walking and Mance stopped with him. The tent loomed before them. Tiresias bit his lip before turning to him.

"I'll do it," he said quietly.

"You don't like the man, do you?"

"No…not why I volunteered, but it's my idea. I'll do it."

That prompted a small laugh from the King. Mance turned to him.

"Don't take so much credit. We're going to do the same. We were just waiting for you lot to show. To see what became of him." His eyes shined as he looked back to the tent. "We'll do it. Orell was Free Folk. One of us."

He reached up and patted Tiresias on the shoulder, nodding him to the clearing. "You can help build the pyre though."

Tiresias nodded and walked forward. As he bent to gather wood, he heard Mance speak to Dim Dalba and a few others. Few words were exchanged before they entered the tent.

Turning his ears away, he began to lay the foundation. As he worked, several more hands joined him and the pyre was constructed rather quickly. It was impressive.

Then again, they probably had a lot of practice over the past few years.

Standing up, he walked to the tree line. The Free Folk who remained gave him a wide berth, but their eyes weren't on him.

The flap lifted. Dim Dalba and the others came through carrying the thin, dead frame of Orell. His furs and shoes were removed, neck dark with blood. Tiresias smelled him from here. Heard no weakened heartbeat. Mance followed with a torch. Along with Tormund, Karsi, Kober and Macha.

It was quick. No words were spoken. No prayers. No messages for the dead. Orell was placed on the pyre and the torch soon followed.

The fire soon turned into the biggest one in camp as it engulfed Orell's body. He wondered if it could be seen from the Wall. Maybe but probably not. He doubted this was the first funeral pyre to burn in this camp. If the watchers on the Wall hadn't seen those, they wouldn't see this one.

Whiffs from the pyre came to him and it was too late not to smell Orell burning up. Memories returned from Craster's Keep. The old man's searing flesh entered his nostrils as he walked away from the keep. He thought back to the babe with the rattling wail. How many more bodies will burn in this camp tonight?

He wasn't so curious as to actually find out. Only a few Free Folk seemed committed to seeing Orell reduced to ashes. Mance, Dim Dalba, Tormund, the rest of their expedition. The others continued with their evening and no eyes were on him. So he returned to the tent.

Qhorin and Clatton were still sleeping. Not that he was surprised. Despite guest right, it wasn't a good idea for the Halfhand to walk in full view of the camp. Better to stay out of sight and find sleep when he could. Benjen and Gared were sitting up, having supper.

Tiresias sat down opposite and was immediately offered a stick of charred rabbit meat. Forgoing the recent smells of Orell burning, he bit into the small beast. He hadn't eaten properly since Castle Black.

Benjen glanced to the tent flap. "I won't pretend I ever liked him. But no part of me is glad he's gone. He'd been mighty useful out there."

"How many times have you been to the Frostfangs?"

"Four." Benjen nodded to the sleeping Halfhand. "He's practically lived there for years. I'm glad he's with us. But still…"

He tapered off, looking into the fire. He lowered his meal.

"What?" Tiresias asked.

Gared and Benjen exchanged a look before the First Ranger met his eyes.

"I think you should stay behind," he said quietly. "It's no slight against you. It's just practical. Even numbers are essential for these ranges. Two are able to keep each other warm when the cold really sets in. And all of us are far more experienced up here than you. You are no Free Folk. No Night Watchman. You're not even a Northerner. You've done your part, giving us the dragonglass and more. If anyone deserves to back out, it's you. No one here would think any worse of you."

The tent was quite silent. Qhorin and Clatton didn't even snore. Tiresias wondered if they learned to sleep silently out during their ranges, so that they wouldn't attract even more dangers in the night.

He wasn't insulted by Benjen's offer. Actually he was quite tempted by it. It was generous. To leave for Castle Black, get back south of the Wall, return to Winterfell and the Starks. To see Mal and be there when it came…

His tongue ran over some rabbit sinew stuck in his teeth. He picked it out, chewing it, mulling over the several campfires he walked past tonight. The pale, anxious faces of those just waiting. He could walk past all of them in the morning back to the Wall, be granted passage, substance and comfort.

Mance's words ran through his mind, though he didn't need them to decide.

"Thank you, Benjen…but no. I'll be travelling with you all as planned."

He went back to his rabbit. Thankfully Benjen didn't press the matter.

Swallowing, he grinned grimly. "Besides, you're pretty confident your numbers will remain even until you get back. There's plenty out there that could whittle this expedition down to seven, five, three…might need an extra number then."

"Fair enough," Benjen said, bringing the meat back up for a bite. "Just thought I'd offer."

"It was a good offer." Tiresias set his stick down into the fire, leaving the bones to burn. "Do we have any more rabbit?"

The rest of their supper didn't take long. And with no tomes, Tiresias had little else to do in the tent for the remainder of the evening. His eyes fell on his quiver. He didn't carry any obsidian arrowheads. He thought back to Ygritte's advice. It was sound, but he didn't want to experiment with different cuts for the tail feathers. He could very well destabilize half his ammunition before setting out for the Frostfangs. It was too big a risk.

He should have looked more closely at her arrows. After so many years in this world, he assumed he was better when encountering familiar faces for the first time. Evidently not…

Qhorin and Clatton had the right idea. As restless as he was, there would be no greater opportunity to sleep than there was right now. He laid down, using his rucksack for a pillow. Benjen did the same, staring up at the ventilation hole. His dragonglass dagger laid sheathed on his right side.

He nodded to the obsidian. "You ever had a chance to use it?"

Benjen sighed. "Once," he murmured. "Two years maybe…after you gave it to me."

Tiresias waited, but Benjen offered no other details. He shifted his belt, not used to having it on as he slept. Reaching over, he drew out his own obsidian blade. It felt much better in his hands, as opposed to when he arrived at Castle Black. He lifted it. The fire shone through, brought out the deadly blues and violets.

"What about you?" Benjen asked. "Have you gotten any use out of yours?"

"Not this one," he murmured.

Sheathing it, he unbuckled his belt and set it to the side. A bit too trusting? Perhaps, but he would take full advantage of this tent tonight. Of this security. As tenuous as it was. He closed his eyes, determined to get one last comfortable night of sleep.