The water was cold, but the night was colder. Evening fell like summer rain, thick and heavy and sudden, and with it a light sleep that never truly took him down into a full embrace.

He awoke with a start, his back aching and his arse on fire. The moon still hung forlornly in the sky, and the chill of winter was all about them. He had not slept more than a mark or two of the candle. A gentle breeze stumbled its way through the trees which lined the riverbank, seeping through the thicket which served as their only true protection. Somewhere a wolf howled, too far away to present any imminent danger, and everywhere the crickets sang their usual song. The fire crackled on, low but steady, their sole prevention against watersnakes and any other foul creatures the night might bring against them. He threw what was left of the sweetgrass onto the flames, to ward off mosquitoes and other such malefactors, but there was not much at hand, meaning the effect would be minimal if at all. Against his better judgement he had spent the greater part of the late afternoon scouring the river bank for the stuff, in attendance to the wishes of the wretching maid - a maid? no longer, not for many a moon - instead of pressing on and seeking shelter on the small uninhabited island a couple leagues south. Insult was added to injury when she made use of surprisingly little, taking some to rub on her face and skin (as she urged him to do also, to his grudging acquiescence) and throwing the rest into some ill-conceived concoction involving mulberries and other unidentified herbal finds to brew a tea for them both. The black brother was little inclined towards either superstition or adolescent optimism, but the absence of a maester and the brutal assault levied against him by his bowels had him taking the small metal bow up to his cracked, dry lips.

Perhaps with honey to sweeten it, the brew would not have tasted quite so foul, but as it was the brother had to hold onto all of his resolve not to bring it all right back up. The lass for her part made do as if downing the Arbor's finest, falling asleep promptly thereafter. To her credit she had not cried a peep all day and night long, and his bowels, while rumbling, no longer threatened to adorn his dull garb with firey shit whenever he should make the slightest of movements.

His back still ached, however, and crouching in the bramble until sun down had not done his old knees any favours either. In his waking hours (and he had barely slept at all) he found himself fumbling about for his dagger more often than he liked, rough old hands running back and forth over the hilt in search of some vague reassurance.

The lions would be have been occupied with their siege at least a day or two longer, during which time following the river's course had been the easiest and safest option for them. The singer had left them a small fishing boat a league and a half upstream, but the black brother was loathe to attract unwanted attention by alerting every single riverside village unnecessarily. He had rowed them as far as he could on the first night, then abandoned the boat half-way through the next day when the damned search for sweetgrass delayed their progress. They (well, the lady at least) slept from noon until just past sun down, at which point he retrieved the boat and woke the innocent looking young septa. The girl was still tired, but riders would set off on the morrow (if they had not already) and there was every chance they'd head this way. It was thus imperative they reach their destination before sun up, though with the delay the black brother was unsure whether such was physically possible.

I must try.

Underneath his oars a muddy water dyed red-brown flowed, its thick and slow current gently fighting him back along every bend and curve. The crickets, the owls, the wolves and all the rest of Stranger's menagerie sunk into the background as they gently glided away from home. At long last they came upon the first of the two bends that served as Castle Lychester's bay, but all the black brother could do was grit his teeth and press on, as exhausted as he was. Bright blue eyes flared angrily in the moonlight. They had been followed for the better part of a league, quietly, gently, almost undetectably. It was too soon for lions and weasels, which meant the two godsworn were fallen prey to bandits and brigands of some other kind, broken men and outlaws - no doubt those desperate heretics who had taken up with the Red God and forsworn any prior affection they might have had for the Faith. It was not an inviting prospect, to be burnt alive - and he readily perceived he was both surrounded and grossly outnumbered. The horses waiting for them in Lychester's stable would have to wait, as he rowed on, harder and faster, in a bid to shake off and lose his pursuers. His efforts had the opposite effect, however, as muffled orders grew louder and the cloak of night was no longer able to hide the increasing agitation around them.

They knew we were coming.

The singer.

The thought came at once, as did the curse that he muttered under his breath. Why? was the only question he had - for the singer, for the gods, for all of the bloody Seven Kingdoms and every realm that lay beyond them. If the man had meant to betray them he could have done so right away - informed the Freys or Lannisters, or told them nothing, or left no bloody boat in the first place - but it was possible, likely even, that he had breathed word into the wrong ears, those of some greedy little shit who sold what he had heard or been entrusted with to the lions or weasels. Perhaps they'd simply been overheard or found out in some other way. Whatever had transpired it was easy to discern that these pursuers had been expecting them and they'd been expecting them at that exact spot. At the very least they knew who their captives were, and what ransome they could yield...though more like that not they'd take the girl first and do him some harm too before anything else.

These thoughts were interrupted as one of his oars cracked, striking what was either a turtle or stone. He looked up in time to see the first arrow hit the hem of his garment, setting it on fire. The bow it had been fired was held proudly in the air, almost as if a signal to the other men, and the archer smiled him a wicked smile before vanishing into the darkness. The septa woke with a start and screamed, which seemingly served as a signal for the men to enter the water. The oar struck another unseen - he hoped a skull - and cracked, making any attempt at escape futile. He could swim away, but the girl...

"Go, my Lord, go!"

He wavered a second before reaching through the growing flames and snatching her to him. She did not resist, but he was immediately aware they were not alone as the boat rocked and quivered under a new weight. He turned around and met the gaze of an archer wading into the water on the shore, the man's eyes smiling broadly in wild and gluttonous recognition.

"Blackfish!" The man cried, as if greeting an old friend.

Frey.

He pushed the girl back and lunged, making for their assailant's throat. There were others...more, many, too many...but Aegon Bloodborn would have to wait. What mattered was the attacker here present, the bold and brave outlaw who had no doubt thought to make a name and fame for himself as the captor of the Blackfish, the man whose blood now gurgled violently forth as he tried to claw his throat back together. He was thrown off the boat without cereemony and plunged back into the water, suddenly still and calm save for the man's own death throes and final attempts at survival. The black brother seized the remaining oar and plunged it sideways, propelling the boat away from the shore and further upstream, a muttered reassurance or two issued to calm the now weeping lass, but he felt his heart swell in his throat and the brew curdle in his belly in the silent moment that followed.

This would not be his last fight.

"Please my Lord, save yourself!"

"Quiet woman!"

He spun around, one, two, three times, but no more assailants came. He saw them running along the shore, but those who were in the water were either lying in wait or had fallen back in the noisy demise of their fallen comrade. Aegon Frey was gone, at least for now, and he could not be sure if they were still following him. They could have escaped, even with a single oar, he thought, but for the fire, which reignited the boat as more arrows pierced through the night and stalled the lady's initially successful attempts to put it out with riverwater. He ripped off his burning cloak and put his arm around her, looking around one last time, before holding her tight and plunging into the water.

What followed was a madness of shouting, confusion and noise - men splashing into the water all around, men grabbing at their legs and arms, men arguing amongst themselves, even what looked like the dead body of his slain assailant being palmed off from one brigand to the other as they all struggled to simultaneously bark curses and orders at each other while lunging for the Blackfish and his companion. He felt the prick of a blade, and under the water he saw the girl's legs frantically beating just out of his grasp, and a hurt on his head when he came up for air such as he had never felt before, knocking him nigh-unconscious and sending him back under the river's line. He was pushed down, held down, pulled up, grabbed, stabbed again, and then he was falling, falling, gasping for air as he clawed the water, darkness surrounding him, a trout's beady eyes his only onlookers now...a gurgling man with a haggard face looking back at him, in fear and desperation, screaming nothing to no one, bright blue eyes and a shaved head peeking out under the dancing robes of night...eyes that rolled back and a mouth which at last stopped moving, sinking silently into the deep.