DACEY
Instinctively, Dacey hated the fact there was no one to guard Robb Stark's door. It had been such an ingrained part of her life as his guard to always look out for his safety, that an unbarred, unguarded door made her feel awfully uneasy.
"Did you bring my dagger?" she asked, grabbing the doorknob.
Smalljon patted his side, smiling. "I'll take first watch after we see him."
Once inside, she didn't know if he was unconscious or simply sleeping as she stepped closer to the bed. Someone had cut his hair, possibly to help fight his fever, but Dacey did not like the look of it at all. His beard was growing back, at least, she noticed, and his eyes were not so deeply set in their sockets as when she was forced to leave him alone a week ago.
Smalljon dropped to his knees beside the bed, acting out the reaction Dacey had had to suppress at Meerya's house. "I cannot believe this," he murmured, looking from Robb's ravaged, sleeping face to Dacey's smiling one. "You were right."
"Did you doubt me, Lord Umber?" Dacey asked him sternly, the twinkle clear in her eyes.
"I confess I needed to see this myself, aye," Jon chuckled, moving to stand up again lest someone should come in. "Is he asleep, you think?"
She shrugged, happy to be able to do so without pain. Sitting down, she touched Robb's shoulder, the one that had not taken an arrow. "Robb," she said softly, nudging him as gently as she could, pulling back in surprise as he opened his eyes. "Your Grace," she whispered and it took all of her willpower not to just kiss him then and there.
"Dacey," he gritted out, turning his head a fraction to be able to look at Smalljon. "Jon." His breath came out a horrific shudder and his guards exchanged a worried glance. "H-how?"
"Impossible to explain quickly," Dacey whispered, her hand brushing a stray lock of hair away from his forehead, lingering too long, but the urge to comfort him was just too overwhelming. There was nothing kingly about him now; his thin, ravaged body and pale face a constant reminder that he shouldn't be alive, that he was nothing but a scared boy, too young for the crown they had thrust upon him. Reluctantly, she pulled her hand back, aware of Smalljon's eyes on her. "A local girl found you in the river," she whispered again. "She kept you alive. The Maester in this house redressed your wounds, he saved you for real." She swallowed. "They have no idea who you are, Robb, and it has to stay that way."
His eyes widened, then narrowed and an array of emotions came and went between both expressions. "I understand," he said at last, his voice rough and gritty from disuse, before closing his eyes. They were silent for a while, Dacey and Jon staring at the ghost of what their King once was – tall, proud, brave – and Dacey gasped as she noticed a lone tear trickle out from between Robb's dark lashes, every last bit of feminine instinct she had always kept a lid on during her warrior life kicking in with force.
"Your Grace…" she began, her heart aching for him, wondering what she could possibly say to lessen his grief.
When he opened his eyes again they were sad and glistening with more tears and he looked at them both. "I send them all to their graves," he whispered, his eyes going out of focus, giving Dacey the unpleasant feeling he was staring straight through her. "I send my mother to her grave."
"Robb…" Dacey picked up his hand where it lay limp on the bed. "What Walder Frey did…" She took a deep breath. "It is not your fault. You cannot blame yourself for such an abomination." He shook his head slowly, opening his mouth to disagree with her but his face contorted in sudden pain and Dacey gripped his hand even tighter, forcing him to look at her.
"I've told them… – Robb," she urged and he focused on her once again as she brushed the tears from his face, his own hand still out of order underneath the furs. She gave him a pointed stare, forcing him to pay close attention. "I told them you are a captain in Robb Stark's army." He blinked, trying frantically to understand what she was saying. "They saw your clothes," she continued. "They know you must be from Winterfell, or at the very least a Northman in the Stark army." Robb nodded slowly, the strategics of it all coming back to him. "Your name is Rodrik for now." She blushed a bit, could feel the warmth of it travel up her cheeks, embarrassed suddenly by the liberties she had already taken. Then again, they needed to survive and get to the north and their King was in no state to take care of things himself.
"A good name," he croaked out, and Dacey felt her heart swell when finally, slowly, a smile formed on Robb Stark's bruised face.
"We'll not be calling you Your Grace," Jon muttered quietly and Robb turned his head to look at the massive man standing to his left. "But you are still our King."
"Hate the title anyway," Robb whispered hoarsely and his guards laughed.
"I'll visit you again tonight," Dacey said, still smiling. She stood, letting go of his hand. "Focus on getting better, so we can get out of here." Robb nodded and all Dacey could see was a scared boy who missed his mother.
When Smalljon was already outside with Dacey close on his heels, Robb spoke once more and they both stopped in their tracks.
"Lady Mor– Dacey?" They both turned around and saw he had his eyes averted. Dacey stepped back into the room, waiting for Robb to say more.
"Yes?" she asked when he stalled, foregoing his name or title with the door wide open.
"Could you..?" he hesitated and she moved closer to the bed. "Would you…" he breathed deeply, throwing a furtive glance in Smalljon's direction, "stay in the room?" He swallowed thickly. "I don't want to be– " She held up a hand, cutting him off, unbuckling her belt and sword.
"Of course," she smiled gently, handing the items to Smalljon, exchanging a knowing glance with him. "Guard the door; give me the dagger." Smalljon dipped his chin, handing her the dagger, moving out of the room once again. He closed the door quietly and Dacey went to stand in front of it.
"Thank you," Robb mumbled and she could tell he was embarrassed.
"How bad is the pain?" she asked him, thinking he would want her to talk to him, hear a familiar voice. Robb just narrowed his eyes, a deep crease right above his nose. "That bad?" Dacey grimaced and the corners of Robb's mouth drew up in a strained smile that warmed her heart. She had always thought Robb Stark a handsome young man, but when he smiled he was something to behold. The second she realised what she was really thinking, she pushed the thought away, annoyed with herself.
"The Maester gave you milk of the poppy for days," she continued. "You took five bolts to the chest and a number of stab wounds." She thought back to the day she and the Maester and Meerya had reopened all of his wounds, and how the gruesome sight of it but especially the smell would most likely stay with her for the rest of her days.
"Meerya found you in the river, and the water had done the wounds no favours. She stitched it all up which kept you alive, but barely. Maester Ellard's poultices helped clean the wounds, or so he told me. And I must admit the bandages look fresh and clean even to my untrained eye." Even though the topic of her story was of a rather horrific nature, he was hanging on to her every word, telling her she had been right in thinking he just wanted a familiar voice and face around after the atrocities he had been through, and all the pain he had endured.
She knew she had been overjoyed when she found out Smalljon was in the room next to her, giving her someone to talk to, someone who could relate to the cruelties they had both witnessed. Smalljon had been scared too, at a certain point, huge hulk of a man though he was. Fear of death experienced off the battlefield could take the heart of anyone, Dacey knew, as lying down, waiting for things to change – be it for better or worse – without being able to do anything about it, without fighting one's way to safety or death, was infuriating and maddening and frightening at the best of times. Of course Robb was scared, she understood it perfectly – he was nowhere near out of the woods yet; so if staying in the room with him meant he could breathe a little easier, it was the least she could do.
"I want no more of it," Robb broke through her thoughts, and she frowned wondering what part of her words he was referring to.
"The Maester's milk," he muttered and Dacey smiled. "I want no more of the dreams I had when he kept me under."
"Bad dreams?" she asked but he shook his head slowly.
"It's difficult to explain."
"I have time," she smiled at him, stepping a little closer to the bed.
"When I dream it always feels like I am someone else, someone who knows me, all of me." He drew a shuddery breath into his lungs and Dacey had to strain to hear his next words. "I have not had those dreams for a long time." He paused, drawing breath for his next words, and Dacey frowned when she saw the effort it took. "I'm certain it's because of the milk. That's why I don't want it anymore." He looked at her. "I prefer the pain."
"I understand," Dacey said, hoping she did. "I'll tell the Maester, if you like."
He nodded, grimacing with a sudden stab of pain and Dacey winced. "You should sleep now, Robb," she whispered, moving even closer to the bed, careful not to be overheard mentioning his name. "I'll stay with you for as long as you like, but you need to rest."
"Of course," he admitted, and she watched him smile softly at her. "Dacey?"
"Your Gr–, yes?" she hastily corrected herself, inwardly kicking herself for being so careless.
"Where's Grey Wind?" he asked on a whisper, and Dacey looked at him, speechless, slowly putting the pieces together; realising only then that Robb did not remember anything after he'd witnessed his mother's slow, gruesome death. Maybe it would come back to him in time and he would ultimately be able to tell her and Jon exactly how he had escaped, but for now all he knew was that his mother had died because he took her there, because he had married the wrong girl and he caused his mother to be in that hall, and her bloody end was his last memory. She blinked her tears away.
"I don't know," she said at last and she watched his face fall. "But I'm certain he was the one who saved you."
JEYNE
She had slept fitfully ever since the nights the howling started. They were in the Wolfswood now, the Blackfish had explained to her, and of course it reminded her of Grey Wind. She had tried so hard not to be afraid of Robb's direwolf; understanding how much the animal meant to her husband, but he was so huge and his muzzle was always twisted around a growl and she was certain the animal could smell her fear. Robb had assured her Grey Wind would never hurt her, that he more likely only wanted to guard her, but she had never truly believed him, convinced as she was that direwolves were impossible to control by mere humans.
When the Blackfish softly shook her shoulder, wordlessly signalling their time of rest was over, she sat up, her back aching, head pounding – every day harder to face than the previous one. They had passed a small keep the day before and Ser Brynden had somehow (she never asked how) procured a big loaf of bread, something the taste of which she had almost forgotten, and he handed her the piece he'd just torn off, going back to tending to their horse (she never asked how he procured that one, either).
The snowfall had stopped about three days ago – she couldn't be sure as days and nights seemed to have started blurring together – which made their trek marginally more bearable but still Jeyne wondered if she would survive and live to see the Wall. She stared into the fire, thinking how they had to sleep with a fire now that the wolves were prowling on their trail, a thought that sent perpetual shivers down Jeyne's spine – causing her to see sharp, yellowish eyes behind every tree and around every corner, where obviously there were none.
After only a few bites she realised why she wasn't tucking in with more fervour; a strange thing since hunger was their constant companion. The trees around her began to spin, and stumbling to her feet, she only made it three steps before doubling over and vomiting up the contents of her stomach.
"My Lady!" the Blackfish called out, hurrying over, grabbing her shoulders and her braid to keep it away from the mess. She sat up, leaning into his grasp and taking in a shuddery lungful of cold, crisp air.
"It's nothing," she rushed to say as the old man looked at her, his brow creased with worry. "I'm fine. It's this journey, the strange food, the lack of food – I'm just too frail for these harsh conditions; this land. It's a good thing my husband doesn't get to see me like this." She offered him the bravest smile she could muster and grabbed a handful of snow to wash out her mouth in a distinctly unladylike gesture. "I just need to toughen up if I'm going to survive at the Wall." She stood, carefully brushing down her dress and her cloak, allowing Ser Brynden to adjust her furs and walk her to the horse, helping her up.
"Will you be all right?" he asked, giving her a very pointed look, and Jeyne smiled and nodded before he mounted the horse as well, right behind her, protecting her from the worst of the cold and the wind and anything or anyone else they did not particularly care to meet. The Blackfish had told her he expected them to leave the Wolfswood behind in about two more days, and Jeyne worried about it, wondering how she would deal with the harsh cold of the wide-open lands that lay ahead, the flat and barren lands before the Gift. Although the wolves had caused her to be fearful, the wood had at least offered them a most welcome shelter from the freezing winds. Jeyne shuddered when she realised such luxuries were rapidly becoming a thing of the past.
"On horseback we can make three to four times more speed," the Blackfish muttered behind her, clearly having read her thoughts. "Do not worry, Your Grace, I will get you to the Lord Commander – I have seen tougher times."
Jeyne would gladly believe it. The man they called the Blackfish (not the most flattering of nicknames for a Tully, she thought, still wondering how he had earned it) had safeguarded her away from the Trident, along Ironman's Bay and into the Neck. They couldn't travel the King's Road for obvious reasons, but bands of outlaws and raiders roamed freely across the land and for the first few days she had travelled in a constant state of panic, expecting murder at every bend, fuelled by her grief and her feverish images of how Robb must have found his end at the Twins. Crossing through Frey territory had been gruesome, especially when the towers of the Twins came into view – remaining visible for the remainder of that day – causing her to cry silently, her sense of loss so acutely painful that it nearly took her breath away. Reaching the icy wind and snow of the North had almost felt like a blessing, as she felt connected to the land and her dead husband in all kinds of inexplicable ways that comforted her and gave her the strength she needed to face every new day. And throughout it all, the old knight kept her safe and relatively comfortable, found her food and shelter and anything else of use he could lay his hands on, never losing his patience with her tears and her weakness, steadfastly referring to her as Your Grace and My Lady and treating her with the utmost respect.
"Do you think my husband knew these woods well?" she ventured to ask, turning her head to give Ser Brynden a sidelong glance. Travelling in parts so close to her late husband's home had made her realise she hardly knew a thing about his youth, his life before the war, something that could only be rectified by very few people now.
"My niece, the Lady Catelyn, took Robb home to Winterfell before he could properly speak or walk," the Blackfish answered gruffly. "And then I didn't see him again until he was King in the North, and so close to his death." She turned her head back, biting her lip. "But I knew his father and I cannot imagine Eddard Stark didn't make certain his sons knew everything there is to know about the North. So, I gather he knew his way around here, yes."
Jeyne smiled, picturing Robb on his horse, a beautiful white destrier that she had first seen at the Crag after he had stormed the keep, the only horse she had ever seen him ride, and realised he'd been brought up riding and hunting and knowing his way around the frosty wasteland that she herself was currently trying to brave. She knew it was ridiculous, but for a few seconds she found herself breathing a little easier.
"Maybe you should talk to the Lord Commander once we reach the Wall," Ser Brynden muttered behind her once more. "Jon Snow grew up alongside the King, he probably knows him better than anyone else alive today." Jeyne nodded keenly, the prospect something to be treasured and warmed by, the things the Lord Commander could tell her about her husband. Of course Robb had told her of his half-brother, the one he flat-out refused to call Bastard, did not allow anyone else to call Bastard either – especially not after Theon Greyjoy's betrayal – and it told her something of the relationship the brothers must have shared. Then another thought hit her.
"Has a raven been sent to Castle Black?"
The Blackfish harrumphed behind her, clearly pondering the question.
"I mean," she said, untangling her own thoughts. "Will we be the ones to tell the Lord Commander of his brother's death? Or describe to him the circumstances in which he died?" Her questions caused them both to be silent, neither of them able to come up with any answers.
"Let's hope someone has sent word to the Wall," the Blackfish said in the end. "Or we will have to break the news to him, and from what I have heard, it will come as a terrible blow."
Before the last words had left Ser Brynden's mouth, the world started spinning just like it had that morning, and Jeyne could barely ask for the horse to be stopped and let off as her stomach once again turned inside out and she dropped to her knees as her body convulsed. The Blackfish dismounted quickly, repeating his actions of earlier that day, helping his charge up again and planting her on a stump of wood so she could get her bearings and catch her breath. Again, she used a bit of snow, spitting away from the old man – offering him a tentative smile afterwards. She'd started to mutter her apologies when he cut her off by grasping her hands in his own and shaking his head.
"Do not excuse yourself, Your Grace," he said, scrutinising her face for a few seconds.
When she started to feel uncomfortable under his gaze, on the brink of averting her eyes, the old man let go of her hands and dropped to his knees in the snow.
"Your Grace," he began. "May I speak freely?"
She almost giggled.
"My dear Ser Brynden," she said, briefly touching his cheek. "You saved my life, I'm certain of it. You may speak to me in any way you see fit. What is it you would like to say to me?"
She looked curiously at the Blackfish, waiting for the words to come.
"A frank question, doubtless," he said after a few seconds of apparent deliberation with himself, "but when was the last time Your Grace had her moon blood?"
"Surely–, " Jeyne began thoughtlessly, slightly embarrassed by the private character of the question; amused almost by the sheer ridiculousness of the thought, as she had never, not in all those months together with Robb, missed her bleeding even once. Then she fell silent, struck by the thought that this time it had indeed been too long, and she whipped her head around, counting the moons in her head, her eyes widening as they locked on to Ser Brynden's questioning stare.
"By the gods," she stammered, her heart suddenly hammering in her ribcage, lowering her hands involuntarily to come and rest protectively over her stomach. "Oh, Robb…"