She normally wasn't this agitated during hunting, but the adrenaline from the events of yesterday was still flowing through her body. She credited that her aim was still steady to having kept up practising in Winterfell, but it was still slightly more imprecise than usual nevertheless. Meera let go of the string and the arrow shot through the air with immense pace till it hit its target.

She thanked the Old Gods for her hunting gain, but the piety of the gratitude was meagre. While her mother had always been religious, Father had only done it as a formality. But that was until Jojen began giving signs of greensight. From an underlying jealousy, Meera had pushed faith towards the old gods away from her everyday life. Though since meeting Bran had it been difficult not to believe in the gods of old, but she didn't know how to actually do so. Instead, she'd contented herself by simply staying loyal to the two boys dear in her life, of which only one grew to be a man.

Even though she'd already travelled much, compared to other high-born women 20 years of age, she'd never done so alone. She had always had one or more companions alongside her, and she had come to realise that a horse wasn't a good conversational substitute.

Despite telling herself that she was okay, that she had made the right decision, a little voice kept saying it wasn't – that she had overreacted and her departure was an act of selfishness, leaving Bran in the time he needed her the most, even if he wasn't aware. It told her she'd been disloyal to House Stark, her brother Jojen, Sansa and Bran himself. If she ever wanted to return, she'd receive a bitter and plain welcome in turn of one respecting her service. Maybe even her own father would disapprove of her actions, seeing how highly he prioritises the Reeds' loyalty and bond with the Starks.

Having survived and gone unnoticed by the bandits and mercenaries of yesterday, Meera felt more confident in her journey. It was by pure luck that she'd managed to slip past them, only going noticed once. During her escape, she'd drawn an arrow and pointed it at one of the men who was hunting her. Her instincts wanted her to let go of the string, but something told her it would have been wrong. Maybe she just wasn't ready to kill another human.

She made herself a good camp, all things considered. Pine trees were her greatest help in these times, being able to create temporary shelter far better than any other tree, while also capable of acting as a sort of mattress. With a half-full stomach and the fire put, she closed her eyes.

What felt like immediately after sleep had overtaken her body, her mind became vaguely awoken; although she was faintly aware of the surroundings, her tired body and limbs remained unable to move. Only her mind had conscience, and even so, only restricted.

Between the distant trees, a shadowy figure became noticeable due to its movement. It moved with slow, controlled steps yet somehow managed to cross disproportionally great lengths through the blurry, fatigued vision of Meera's eyes, which were threatened by their heavy eyelids.

She could suddenly stand up without any issue or be stricken by dizziness. In contrast to as of late, she felt light on her feet and full of energy, easily passing what would otherwise have been obstacles. She neared herself to where she'd seen the shadow move, but as she approached and came closer, uneasiness crept into her bones. The figure then revealed itself, looking down at its feet. It was Bran.

"You!" Meera shouted, angry. "I told you not to follow me!"

"You asked my ravens not to follow." He blatantly answered.

"By which I meant you!" she said as she went aggressively towards him, feeling the need to strike. Now standing right in front of him, the height difference clear. "I don't want you here. Leave."

"I will. But I have to tell you something," he said, now forced to follow a quickly leaving Meera.

Despite almost running, Meera was angry more than anything else to find him suddenly appearing before her. "It won't take long." He assured her. His eyes revealed that he did not want to be here either.

"What is it? A plea for my return? That won't happen, Bran. I decided to leave Winterfell, and you, and I intend to carry out that plan."

"Good, 'cause you should. I'm simply here to bring a warning."

"Against what? I've crossed miles in the middle of snowstorm dragging you, fleeing from wights, I've survived and travelled the wild for years, what would there be for me to worry about?"

"You're smarter than that, Meera." He said plainly, but their eyes were locked all the while. Of course, Meera knew he was right.

"Why is it you're here?" she sighed, giving up.

"You've already stumbled upon them." He said in an explanatory tone. "They are going to catch you."

"They are not – I slipped past them. They never got to me."

"But you're going to have to let them."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Again, she got angry.

"As I said: they are going to catch you. It doesn't matter if you want them to or not."

"Even if I had stayed at Winterfell?" she questioned with spite. "Even then, Bran?"

The Prince and heir of the North was turned into a tall boy, humbled. "No."

"Yet you sent me away."

"You don't need to understand… I don't either. Not fully. It's just that I wanted you to know."

"Well, now I know you're the cause of my forthcoming capture. Thank you."

For the first time in longer what she could remember, Bran got visibly annoyed. He frowned and took a step closer to her, allowing for him to look down at her, more than before. In pure defiance, Meera refused to back off.

"Some things are bigger than us. You and me both. I try to serve that. This is one of those times." He then took a step or two back, his brief annoyed expression loosened, but its seriousness remained. "When you're their captive, do not fear. Things will work out. Trust me."

"I don't know who to trust anymore, Bran. But if you sa-"

As her body rose from lying to sitting, she gasped loudly for breath. She looked around; gone was the walking Bran, only to be replaced by the nearby footsteps of several armoured men. Meera instinctively began packing whatever she could and ran as soon as she could, far away from her camp.

"There she is! Get her!" a man shouted, not far from her.

Using the best of her abilities, Meera jumped and crossed what was in her way, may it be broken branches or seemingly randomly positioned rocks – nothing was a major hindrance to her. Once she reached the end of the forest, she knew it was over, but refused to accept it. Exiting the forest would be way too open to be safe, and turning would cost too much time – there were, after all, several men pursuing her and none were far. Still, she decided to turn left and hoping for the best. The best didn't last long though, when a large, scarred man came running down from one the hills, full of mad rage from the chase. It was inevitable to avoid him completely. Had Meera had her net, it would've been easy to pass him, but now she didn't even have the sword she'd taken with her from Winterfell, and the last thing she saw was the man's fist, clenched around a sword, closing in on her face at a rapid pace.

One forgot how much more effective the mouth was at breathing than the nose. It would be taken for granted, and only realised when one became unable to use it. Meera was realising this herself now – her mouth tightly gagged with a dirty cloth, in addition to her hands tied on her back.

She was lying face down against the cold, frozen ground. They had at least had the decency and respect to allow her to keep the furs and thick clothing on. The mercenaries, or whatever they were, could easily just have taken what clothing was vital to her and left her unconscious, underdressed body to be eaten alive by the cold. Evidently, they hadn't molested her either. And while those were things to be grateful for, her head was still aching, leaving her mind unfocused and blurry. Still, she doubted whether or not to be thankful for any of this.

"Hey, pass me the wine," some middle-aged man with a grungy voice said. A fire was crackling in the distance, the light glowing far beyond the adult figures hiding the source from Meera's perspective. It was surrounded by a dozen men or so.

Meera raised her torso slightly upwards, gaining a clearer look. They were obviously the armoured professional soldiers she'd encountered previously. As she crawled slightly nearer, their tired expressions were revealed. It was the middle of the night, after all. Meera knew all too well the exhausting effects travelling in cold had on you.

"Aight, halt already!" another voice commanded. "We aren't going to have wine for the lot of us if you keep drinkin' like that."

"We already don't! The wine'll run up soon enough, you know." The first man answered. "Just trying to 'ave my share is all."

It would seem that the man who had told him to stop drinking didn't like being talked back to – he suddenly rose from his seat and now stood before the man who'd asked for the wine. The former rose as well.

He took the leather flask from the man. "I didn't order you to be funny. I ordered you to stop drinking."

"And now you're going to drink it, eh? I won't have it! It's MY wine, MINE!"

The more composed man simply stared at him until he sat down again. He gave a look around at the men centered around the campfire. "The wine is sparse, men! We have to – "

"So is everthin' fuckin' else! The food, the drink, even the fucking whores seem to be missing at times!" a third man sarcastically proclaimed, causing laughter throughout most of the camp.

"Very funny, eh?" he answered, stretching out the vowels. "There are no whores in the wild, never will be."

"Argh fuck off will ya? We all bloody know that. No need to cram it further into our skulls."

"I don't even know what're talkin' 'bout! We already have a whore!" another man loudly exclaimed, pointing in the direction of Meera. "We even found her in the wild!"

That last comment made several of the men laugh. Meera didn't find it funny at all but was disgusted by both the comment, the man who said it and the reaction it received.

"She's!" the man attempting to assert authority said, also now pointing in Meera's direction. In the very instant he did so, fright overwhelmed her. "She's not a bloody whore, or did you that little stupid head of yours forget?"

"Sure as all seven hells looks like a whore to me!" the drunken man answered back, bursting out into laughter at the end of his own sentence. The laughter, once again, was cut short, but this time for good, it would seem. A loud smack could be heard coming from the man who had just spoken, clearly a slap delivered by the authoritative man of the group. Silence erupted.

"That 'whore' might just be our only way out of this frozen land. Hell, if she's who I think she is, it might just be the only way we'll survive."

"How the fuck will we know if it's her? 'ave you ever seen her? 'cause I doubt that even with all your fuckin' reading Edmund, you've ever seen that girl."

"Right, haven't seen her before. But who else could it be, a girl that small, alone, armed and armoured, going south from Winterfell?" Edmund answered, gaining a few nods and mumbled agreements here and there. "She's supposed to be quite agile, as of what I've heard. Fast too."

Meera searched for something, anything that could assist her. It was incredibly difficult to move much, however, and it seemed an unmountable task to escape, gagged and with hands bound on her lower back, not to mention she would be easy to spot when contrasting the deep snow. It did not completely deter her though, as continued to scout for an opportunity.

Another man rose from sitting on a log, looking directly at Edmund with a daggering stare. Edmund looked back; the debate was clearly far from over.

"Exactly how will ransoming that girl help us?" he began in a hostile, aggressive tone. "How much do you even expect to gain from it, anyway? A bag o' gold for each of us? The moment we put up an offer, that bitch's family will be sending an army straight our way!"

"You know the difference between you and me? Between me and the rest of you?" Edmund began his response with. Whatever peace had just been found a minute or two ago was already long lost. "I'm 'trying'! Sure, it might not be a certain way of survival. But if you've got a better idea, I'd love to hear it."

The first who had voiced his discontent argued once again: "Why the fuck did we even go up 'ere in the first place?" He pointed north. "Nothin' but cold, grey land till you reach the fuckin' Wall."

Edmund closed in on the man. "Would you have preferred to stay in the Riverlands, eh? Is that really what you want, Tys? 'cause then I suggest you fucking go south again!"

"The fuck is there for me to down there? Nothin', that's it! As little as there is for me to do here! Either way that red-haired bitch is going to send my sorry ass to down to the Seven Hells once her bloody armoured cavalry shows up."

"In the words of our captive's house: Winter is coming. Here, in the Riverla-"

Meera found herself lucky to catch that sentence. It bewildered her nonetheless though, as these were not the words of House Reed he uttered. But the thought couldn't linger on in her mind. She fought a battle against detection as she managed to crawl slightly further away from the campfire, continuing to search for anything that might help her. Who did they think she was?

"Then why the fuck did you have us march up here? If it's all the fuckin' same, why did you force us to go through the Neck?" Tys said, only now getting sincerely riled up. "Or have you already forgotten the two-thirds of our band those fuckin' frog eating bog devils killed? Or do you simply not care?"

Edmund took what was coming his way, allowing the man to speak. "In fact, I don't think you do. You're all high and mighty on your bloody horse when all of us were fallin' dead over left and right, getting shot to pieces by the cowardly crocodile fuckers."

Frog eaters and bog dwellers, or devils, were common derogatory nicknames for the Crannogs, but 'crocodile fuckers' wasn't one of them. Meera had heard Crannogs branded as cowardly several times before though but had yet to understand why. Their tactics didn't match those of many others sure, but Meera found honour in war to be innately odd, and honestly quite incompatible with one another. Yet Meera felt completely indifferent towards her captors for their loss – naturally, she wasn't sad on their behalf, but on the other hand, she didn't get any satisfaction from learning it either. Which was odd, really, as these were the ones who would probably be her death.

It was then she saw a sharpened, relatively thick stick lying on top of the snow. It was most likely the work of a bored soldier, but it could possibly be her saviour. With more silence than before, she neared the stick.

"We'll be doomed if we do nothing! Going north was the only option we had, and I decided we took it! Be glad that you joined me in it."

"I will when I fuckin' know I'm safe, which, by the way, I've never fuckin' been."

"Those fucking Northerners would have annihilated us entirely had we stayed down there."

"So you decided the frog eaters should have the honour instead."

"Yes." Edmund openly confessed, startling the surrounding group of men. "For the rest of us to have a chance of survival. I wasn't sure if we would anyway, but we now have that possibility!"

"When Sansa Stark, or Bolton, or whosever's last name she whored herself to, finds out that we've got her sister, it'll be just like Kall said; we'll be fuckin' dead before you can even offer the price."

'Arya' Meera thought, realising. 'They think I'm Arya'. Why? It unexplainably increased her worry, to be thought of as a more valuable prisoner than she was. With improved haste, she finally got the stick between her fingers, though it was terribly difficult to gain control over it, much less attempting to use its end to cut open her binds. Unable to see it and only capable of using her fingers to adjust the stick, she closed her eyes to concentrate on what she could feel. Additionally, it allowed for her mind to process what she heard them saying.

"And you don't even know if it's even her. How will you know, eh? All you have is a claim. When the Starks show up to buy her from us, we'll be gutted." Tys continued, having calmed slightly down. "As you said, we're doomed either way. The cold of winter, the cavalry of the North, assassins, whatever – one of 'em will get us. We're fucked. All I see is a way to have some fun while we're waiting."

"You will not rape her, Tys. None of you bastards will. She's worth nothing if she's spoiled by a bunch of dumb lowlifes like you." Edmund passively commanded. Strangely, the soldiers seemed to somewhat listen. "I don't care if you won't go with my plan – I'll go with it myself then."

Even though she had found the correct placement for the stick and begun to rub the rope binding her wrists on its pointy end, by the mention of rape, she halted, as did her mind. It was as if she in that very instant could smell the foul stench coming from his mouth, feel his repulsive face mere inches from her own. As she did back then, the feel of helplessness overtook her mind, making her want to scream till her lungs exploded and to rip her arms free from the ropes as if she was a giant. The realisation of her circumstances and the lack of hope for them to improve was followed by fright more than anger. It made her feel dizzy and blurry, angry and frightened.

One the night after they escaped Craster's Keep, she had had a nightmare. Confusing and incoherent as dreams are, this one stood clear in her mind. She had dreamt of her rape, had it happened, with Jojen forced to look on, no Jon Snow to rescue them, no Bran to control Hodor. Despite the image lasting not many seconds, they remained within her. Once she awoke from her dream, she was close to throwing up. It was that night she learned to turn to herself for comfort, as she didn't want to awaken her Prince because of a silly dream she'd had. "I'm safe now" she recalled telling herself. "His dreams are worse." Some of her wanted that to be true, another part not. As of the moment she was in now, she could only pray it wouldn't happen.

"Oh, so now you just wan' her for yourself, eh?" Tys said, putting on a smug smile. "Well I don't blame you frankly – we just want a slice too."

"If I wanted to rape her, I would've done that long ago."

"Why? She hasn't been awake yet. No point in fucking an unconscious girl, I assure you. But each to their own, Ed…"

"Fuck off with that."

Tys walked up close to Edmund, standing face to face. "Tell you what. You go find out if that girl is Arya Stark. If she is, we'll follow up on your plan." He looked around the camp for approval from the men. "If not, we'll have our way with her. Sound good?" The latter statement gained him more support than the former.

Reluctantly, Edmund agreed. As a result, Meera became close to frantic, her mind disconnected from her body. It began to work on its own and rose from the ground. It cared little for subtlety and all for escape. When attempting to run, it was not until the shouting stopped her that she understood what was going on.

"The bitch! Grab her!"

A strong hand clenched around her right shoulder, turning her to face the man. He was an ugly man, scarred and bald. He pulled a knife from his belt and quickly cut open her gag. Immediately breathing heavily with her mouth, she bent over. The man stared at her condescendingly until she was looking back at him. He then leaned closer to her head, placing his other hand on her lower hip, whispering: "Don't worry sweety, I'll make sure it won't last long."

This prompted defiance in Meera, making her kick hard on his shin. She instantly regretted though, as the pain in her right foot increased. After staring with hostility towards her for a short moment, the man placed an armoured knee in her stomach, pulling her onto it. Meera let out a loud cry as he did so, losing her breath fast. He hadn't done it violently enough to cause actual damage, but Meera feared it wouldn't be like that for long. "I've got armour on, dumb bitch." He stated as he began pulling her to the fire.

"I told you not to fucking touch her! How is that so difficult to understand?" Edmund angrily said, pushing the man away from Meera, and her onto her knees.

"How are we gonna know if she's Arya Stark, eh?" Kall asked.

"Ask her something only a Stark would know."

"Amazing. You're dumber than you look. How the fuck we would know something 'only' a Stark would know?"

"Right, well then what do you suggest?"

Kall then turned to Meera, whose stomach was still aching violently. "Are you Arya Stark?"

"And you call me dumb? Of course the girl's gonna say yes to that you twat."

"I didn't ask you a damned thing, Tys." Kall answered, silencing him. "I was asking the girl."

Meera's head was still dizzy and distressed as if it wasn't able to coherently comprehend the situation she was in. Its reminiscence of the incident at Craster's was too eerie and too much. It made the already difficult question borderline impossible for her to answer.

"If you lie, we'll find out." Kall threatened, his eyes intense. He obviously waited for an answer, but was patient, either from not wasting the threat or to make it easier for her to give her response. Something told Meera is was the former. "I'll only repeat it once more. Are. You. Arya. Stark?"

She would have little to defend the lie with, but it was her only way to escape all that she feared. "Y-yes…" she mumbled.

"What? Repeat." Kall ordered.

"Yes." Once the word had passed her lips, there was no going back.

"Congratu-fuckin'-lations, Kall. Really thorough work you did there." Tys answered.

"Would you start being quiet yet? Stop acting like you're the smartest fucking person in all of Westeros. 'Cause you're not. I've got this under control." He then returned his gaze towards Meera, his voice now close to a whisper, as if only speaking to himself. "Right now; how will we decide if you're telling the truth? Torture won't do any good, neither will asking you of Winterfell.

"Does anyone know something about Arya Stark? What she's done, who she's been with, something? Anything at all?"

"Your genius is a right fuckin' marvel innit?" Tys spat. In response, Kall pulled his sword and had its point close to Tys' chest before any reaction from the others in the camp was visible.

"Stop it with your bickering! It'll get us nowhere whatsoever. How stupid do you both have to be to not realise that?!" Edmund shouted, having his own sword pulled. "Tys, let the man do his work. Kall, sheathe your sword."

Both of the two men did as commanded. It was in the following silence when Meera noticed that most, if not all, eyes rested on her. Her position was delicate at best – at any moment the worst scenarios could unfold into reality, the thought scaring her to no end. She dared not but to look a few of them in the eyes, finding what she dreaded; lusty gazes, filled with hostility and spite.

One of the men she'd looked in the eyes, who had not spoken before, now did. "I think we should let her go."

The man received every bit of attention available. Most were shocked with his opinion, as was Meera. Many began to voice their discontent with the statement, creating a chaotic myriad of arguments, gradually gaining in loudness. It was, however, of no use to Meera; Kall was not as dumb as the rest of them, as he was quick to grab her firmly by her shoulder, making sure she didn't go anywhere.

"NOW YOU ALL JUST FUCKING STOP!"

Edmund had screamed with every bit of air he could muster. The noise from the dozen soldiers was subdued with close to immediate effect.

"I want you all to shut the fuck up. Let the man say whatever he will, but let's focus on the matter at hand."

"I think it's well about time you shut the fuck up yourself, Ed." Of the men answered. He unsheathed his sword while approaching Edmund, who reciprocated equally. But when the aggressor reached a distance of about 5 feet from Edmund, the latter threw his sword into the snow. Stunned and confused, the soldiers around watched in anticipation.

"Do you really want to kill me? Then go ahead and try. I know I won't kill you." Edmund called, his words sounding both tempting and warning. "You'd achieve nothing but chaos for this group if you do so. Nothing. You're desperate, I'm aware, but so am fucking I! I was too when I fought Northerners back home. I led several of you, and back down there, we all knew it we only had one way to survive, and so we took that way. Don't try and fucking tell me you weren't in as much despair down there as you are up here. I may seem like a cunt, and I am, at times. But I see it as my task to try and make as many of us as possible survive. Is that the same intention you have, with your sword pointed at me? And I know letting the girl might seem like the most knightly thing to do, but now is not the time to be knightly and chivalrous, but neither is it the time to act like a damned wildling!"

The man swung his sword at Edmund without hesitation. It was obvious that Edmund had foreseen this, quickly dodging the blade. After he'd done so, the intensity between the two combatants was only amplified by the complete lack of sound from anyone or anything. They glared at each other for seconds, when the man swung the sword at Edmund again, attempting to use the length of the sword to his advantage by making a horizontal swing, left to right. This move, too, Edmund had read and was quick to evade, but this time he didn't step back: instead, he moved in the opposite direction of the swing, instantly placing himself next to his attacker. It was then he kicked him hard on his right popliteal and pushed his torso, causing the man to fall onto the ground. In a smooth following motion, Edmund sat on him, his knee pressed on the man's upper back and his left hand holding down his head.

Edmund then slowly raised himself. "Kall, do continue."

After the humiliated man had left the centre of attention, Kall asked once again. "Does anyone know anything of Arya Stark?"

"Didn't she leave for Braavos? Or Essos, something like that, eastwards." One of the men suddenly said.

"I've heard something similar. Heard all kinds of things back in the Riverlands once the Northerners arrived."

"What did she go there for?"

"Ask her yourself. She's right there."

Kall turned to her. "That true? You left for Braavos?"

It was true, what they'd heard. Upon Arya's return to Winterfell, it was quickly common knowledge that she'd left for Essos some time after her father's death. It was not until she had already nodded in haste that Meera realised she could've lied again.

A very tanned man with long, dark bushy hair came forward, slowly, due to his old age. He was a foreigner; that much was clear to Meera. But she didn't recognise his homeland, though it had to be Dorne or Essos. He was now a few steps from her when he lowered himself to achieve the same eye height. "Then you should be able to answer me this, 'Arya Stark': I say Valar Morghulis, and you say what?"

She couldn't answer. Not only because that she did not know the answer, but the consequences of giving the wrong response were beyond comprehension. Thus, her mind froze as cool as her surroundings.

"She doesn't know it." Kall uttered with a hint of disappointment, but no shock. "She doesn't know it."

"I don't see the fuckin' problem then. Kall, let's get to it. Untie those wrists – it won't help her anyway." A voice spoke.

"Untie the whore!" another shouted.

Edmund shook his head and walked off away from the men. The loudness of the soldiers began to steadily increase shortly after she had failed to answer, making her body shiver and shake. What awaited her seemed surreal.

"I'm Meera Reed," she said in her defence, though her voice was drowned by those of the soldiers. She bumped her head into Kall so that he would notice her. "I'm Meera Reed!"

Kall furrowed his eyebrows at that, but his attention was quickly drawn elsewhere. Cutting through the silent night, the unmistakeable howls of wolves shot into the ears of every one awake. The men stopped shouting, but the howling halted too. It was replaced by one the soldiers falling in a defiant and resisting manner. The man then rose to his feet again, now with a sword in hand. Without warning and with unnatural movement, the man stormed into one or two nearby soldiers, sword first. Immediately one soldier fell to the ground, dead. The others pulled their own swords and spears, quickly surrounding the hostile man. The man continued to swing his sword almost aimlessly at the men around him as if he'd suddenly lost his own fighting capabilities. Meera however, took the opportunity.

"Kall" she called in a loud whisper. He gave her an intense and frightened look but clearly allowed her to continue. "I'm Meera Reed, of Greywater Watch. My father will make sure you're paid, and even if he doesn't have the money himself, Sansa or Bran will pay it for him."

The man who'd gone crazy was slain by decapitation by an axe from behind. A disgusting sight nonetheless, Meera could've imagined worse ways to go – one of which she was in desperation to escape. Edmund had reappeared, shocked and looking too tired to enter another tantrum.

"The girl claims to be Meera Reed, daughter of Howland," Kall exclaimed, making sure everyone heard it. "I've no reason not to believe her."

"No reason? No one knows who the fuck they are, she could be making up names for it."

"She's not. Meera is the name of Lord Howland's daughter." Edmund argued from a distance. He walked closer as he continued. "She's could be Crannog; short, green eyes, slight build."

"And then you're just going to sell to Howland? The man whose army has just murdered more than half of us?"

"Yes."

"I can show you the way to Greywater Watch. No other can." She quickly added. Truth was that she actually couldn't, not directly anyway.

"She'll lead straight us to our deaths! I've had enough of bog devils, ain't going down there again."

"She's not to be touched. We sell her."

Hesitantly, an unconvinced Kall spoke: "Is that your order? We both know we'll be dead."

"The Northerners are more honourable than most of us. Yes, that is my order." Edmund then turned to his men. "We all need the rest we can get. I'll guard the girl."

The energy had left the group, halting potential protest. All she had to comfort herself with were Bran's words, to not be afraid, that it would work itself out. It was a difficult thing to blindly trust, but it was late night, and she needed to rest.