DACEY

The day the girl came to the keep Dacey Mormont of Bear Island was keeping vigil at Smalljon's makeshift bed, looking for traces of recovery, for signs of life – wanting, needing to be there when he would finally open his eyes. She was still suffering from her own wounds, but compared to the state Smalljon was in, she deemed her situation bearable and stubbornly chose to watch over the man who had survived the massacre with her, the only man who connected to her life before it had all dramatically changed.

In order for her wounds to heal faster the Maester kept telling her she needed her rest, sleep as long as she could, but every day Dacey tried to stay awake for as long as she could. She was not about to let anyone in on it but she was scared of the nightmares that would certainly haunt her the minute she closed her eyes, the images she knew that could never be erased from her mind's eye ever again; the unspeakable horror Walder Frey had brought upon the North by dishonouring the laws of hospitality, the guest right, so ruthlessly and viciously and completely…

…staring down at Smalljon, pale and wrecked by fever on his straw mattress, she thought of how he had been riddled with arrows as she dragged him to the window, how her own wounds made it almost impossible for her to heft his massive body up and across the sill after she had smashed the glass with the nearest heavy object. She had looked down at the river, the water churning as the weather had turned stormy and foul, Smalljon muttering curses in his delirious state before she hauled him up higher, pushing him past the wooden post, praying to the gods he would survive his fall. Turning on her heels, scrambling to grab an oak chair to use as a shield, she quickly scanned the hall to see if there was anything left that she could do for Robb, who had taken so many bolts he must lay dying somewhere, bleeding to death. She tried to find that place again where she'd seen him but couldn't get to as his Kingsguard had been attacked and spread out – not to mention disarmed at the door. One of Smalljon's last actions before too many Freys had started their full-on attack on him was slamming a table over the King, protecting him as much as possible from the onslaught of arrows coming from the music gallery, then being fought back towards her where she stood screaming both his and her King's name at the top of her lungs. He made it until they were mere yards apart and as something – she wasn't certain what – distracted the men he had been trying to fight off, he collapsed on the slate floor, his face contorted in pain and anger and horror and more pain, his begging eyes burning into hers. In a split-second she realised the window behind her was to be his only possible escape, if only he would survive the fall and the water and the terrifying amount of arrows that was still being fired at the both of them, so she grabbed a brazier with gloved hands, burning them nonetheless as she smashed the window, not feeling any of it as she next sunk her fingers in the collar of Smalljon's hauberk, pushing and pulling for as long as it took to hoist him up and over the edge. Turning around, she realised what it was that had distracted Smalljon's attackers mere seconds before and it tore a scream from her lungs as she saw Grey Wind on top of the trestle table that Smalljon had used in his last ditch attempt at protecting the King. His muzzle bloodied from tearing at anyone who would come too close the animal was ruthlessly ripping through limbs and throats at a furious pace, even though a number of bolts were already lodged in his massive body, something the direwolf did not seem to notice. Shocked by the unexpectedness of finding him still alive, she watched in agony how Robb was trying to get to his knees, his eyes glazed and glued to the sight of his dying mother on the floor next to him, bleeding copiously from the gaping wound of her slit throat, life slipping away from her with every heartbeat pounding in Dacey's chest. She found herself screaming again, her King's name, her friend's name, the name of the boy she met in Winterfell when they were younger (a world away) who always smiled at her in utter admiration for her being a warrior and a woman and a she-bear, who couldn't talk to her or share a meal with her for blushing a bright crimson well into the linen collar of his tunic, an even match with his russet curls; the boy who became a King forever hers to defend. She couldn't even reach him now, could do nothing for him – she, his sworn guard, who should die trying to protect him. There were too many arrows and too many Freys between her and her King, though (they had her effectively cornered) and the only thing she could do was get him to see the shattered glass behind her and make him realise it could be his way out. Yet, Robb never looked at her as he was virtually paralysed by the vision of his lady mother dying right there in front of him without a single thing he could do to make it stop, the pool of her blood ever expanding, reaching his hands, his knees, his boots. Amazingly, he made it to his feet, slamming hip first into the table as another bolt hit him square in the chest, his mouth forming words Dacey couldn't hear nor make out, and then it was Grey Wind's teeth in the leather of his vest, jumping down, pulling Robb down with him and Dacey felt the icy finality of a blade in her shoulder and she had to look away, twisting around to slam the chair she'd been holding in her opponent's face and go for the window herself…

It was Smalljon's pained groan that made her snap out of the memory that played in her head every waking moment of the day. The sounds and the smells were so vivid that she wondered how it could have been more than four weeks ago, when it still felt as if it had happened yesterday, this desecration she was unable to wrap her head around. Looking down, though, her heart jumped as she stared into her patient's eyes – exhausted eyes, yes; but open and alert nonetheless.

"Jon," she breathed, wondering if she'd ever felt this grateful in her life before and smiled at him, reaching already for a cup to fill. "You're awake."

She watched him search the room, survival instinct kicking in right away, trying to ascertain where he was and if it was safe and she rested her hand on his shoulder, smiling at him. "It's fine," she said. "We're safe here. Easy, now." She felt his body relax under her palm and poured water into his cup, just a little bit, reaching for the back of his head as she placed it at his lips.

"We're miles from the Twins," she whispered as he tried to swallow, a trickle running down his chin and into his rugged beard. "There's a Maester here who saved your life, and the family here have told me they'd rather swear to House Stark than Lannister."

Smalljon frowned, tried to say something but couldn't and Dacey smiled again. "Don't worry," she said, setting the cup down. "I wasn't holding them at sword point when they told me, and they turned a Frey search party away just days ago." Standing up she moved to the only window in the room and peeked past the drawn curtains. "They're hiding us, Jon. I think they can be trusted. And it's not quite as if we have a choice." She turned back to face him. "I have secured a sword, though," and she patted the pommel of the broadsword tied to her hip, choosing not to tell him she was too weak yet to wield it properly. "And I still have my dagger."

They stared at each other in the dusky light of the room, both of them doubtlessly reliving the same terrifying memory.

"The King?" Smalljon asked finally, his voice nothing but a scratchy grunt, and Dacey felt her heart swell when she realised Smalljon used the title and not the name, both of them kingsguards to the last.

"I don't know," she muttered honestly, a stab of guilt spiking through her, wishing she'd been able to save Robb, or at least see if he could possibly have survived. "I couldn't get to him anymore. I keep thinking I should have died there as well."

She returned to the bed and sat down to tell him what had happened, grinning nervously at his disbelief when she described how she had literally pushed him out of a window and into the Trident. Then she told him of Grey Wind and how Robb's trusted direwolf had somehow, miraculously, made it into the great hall, fighting furiously to defend his master, and how he had pulled Robb down by the collar with his teeth before she had no other option but to turn around and save herself by jumping out of the shattered window, hoping she would survive the angry current below her, hoping she would ultimately wash up on the river banks well out of the Freys' reach, hoping she would live to tell this tale and avenge every last of the deaths she had just witnessed.

The short knock on the door was what brought them back from the horrid images in both of their minds, and Dacey moved to unlatch the door, allowing the Maester in. He was a big man named Ellard, the chain around his neck appearing much smaller because of his stature, and she dipped her head as he passed her into the room, bringing fresh bandages and medicine. She could tell he was pleased to see Smalljon's eyes open and bright as he sat down in Dacey's place to check the wounds.

"You'll be next," he muttered as he worked, jerking his chin in Dacey's direction. "You'll be in this bed if you're not more careful." She shrugged, trying to ignore the truth behind his words as well as the slow-burning fever that was preventing her from gaining the necessary strength every day. Now that Jon was awake she felt a little more secure, though, and maybe she would take the Maester's advice and get some rest. Or maybe not.

"They tried to massacre us," she muttered, surprising herself with her words, always the one to keep her opinion to herself, to bottle things up. "They did massacre us, so many of my brothers in arms were slain before my eyes. I watched my King's own mother die and all of this after we had shared bread and salt, thinking we were safe. I understand you worry about my health, but with Smalljon in this state someone has to remain watchful and out of bed. We are in Frey territory and we are not safe." She shuddered through a deep breath, causing both the Maester and Smalljon to look up at her. Dipping her head again, she allowed Maester Ellard to tend to the wounds further down Jon's body by stepping out of the room, closing the door and standing guard.

It was a small keep they had stumbled upon, situated close to the Trident's Green Fork, called Wilford. She had struggled out of the water herself, the underwater plants ensnaring her legs as she tried to kick to the banks, and to this day she still wondered which of the gods had been on her side as she had limped along the riverbanks, bleeding from multiple wounds and searching for a place to hide, when she finally happened on the small but strong, stone building. The people in the keep had taken her in without question, had tended to her wounds and, when her fever had broken, told her they had found another Northerner with identical arrow-wounds that they were trying to keep alive in an adjacent room. They told her of the news that had trickled in about the carnage at the Twins and they assured her they would not turn them in, appalled as they were by the unthinkable violations the Freys had committed.

"We belong to a Frey bannerman," Gerad, the head of the keep's small family told her one night, a deep frown on his face as he sat by her bedside. "But we know what Walder Frey did, no matter what stories they try to feed us now. The Young Wolf fought a just cause and I am shamed to the core his army was betrayed so completely. If there was any way I could change fealty I would, but for now harbouring Stark fugitives will have to do."

She shifted her position in front of Smalljon's chamber door, rubbing an absent hand over the spot where the wound to her shoulder hurt the most and her eyes went out of focus again. She remembered the first time she asked Gerad if he knew anything about King Robb, if any word had gotten out about the Young Wolf's fate, but the kind old man had no answer for her, looking at her with a hundred questions burning on his lips yet never asking a single one of them. He promised her he would try and find out, but his eyes betrayed his true feelings about the matter, clearly not believing for a single moment Robb Stark would have escaped Walder Frey's abomination.

For the past five weeks, Gerad never had an answer to the one question she needed answering, and so her sleep remained filled with visions of bloodshed, of her King riddled with arrows struggling to his feet, of Lady Catelyn drowning in an ever-expanding sea of blood and of Bear island where her sisters mourned her death.