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Chapter 11
1 month later (5 months pregnant)
Following the river seemed to be a good idea at the time, but now Maeve wondered if there was ever an end to the thing she walked along now. The dry dirt beneath her feet had stained her worn boots a light brown colour and the bodice of her dress was nearly in shreds as her belly grew outward.
Her belly was far more pronounced now, the weight of the child inside making her back ache and her feet throb, making her feel almost a cripple. The summer was at the end, the leaves were starting to change and die, but Maeve still found some healing leaves, chewing them in her mouth and layering the green mush over her feet.
Maeve had followed the stream, watched as it flowed into a river and kept walking and walking and walking. Every day, she felt a little emptier, felt more of a stranger to herself. She acted out of mindless, meaningless instinct. Every step, every chewed up leaf, every day was mechanical, her body working day by day as her mind drifted off elsewhere.
She touched her curved belly, clothed by measly scraps...this was not the body of a septa. Maeve half wanted to stay alone so no one would ever see her shame, but the larger half grew lonely. Loneliness proved a harsh force, driving her toward the promise of company as a donkey driver dangles a carrot before his mule, the reward just out of reach.
She kept on.
Finally, she stopped at the side of the road, not able to walk anymore, and sat. Maeve stripped off her boots, cringing at the sight of her blistered feet. The outside of her feet, as well as the soles, were now marred and rubbed raw, the skin spitting and cracking, red flesh revealed beneath her peeling skin. The green mush she had spread across the ugly wounds had rubbed away and to her dismay, she saw no sign of any more of the leaf.
The sun moved across the ground with aching slowness, but Maeve took no notice as she sat there until the light finally disappeared beyond the trees. The wind carefully lifted her hair, tickling her chin as the dull, dry strands brushed against it.
Too many days she had traveled, too far had her feet walked, too thin her hope and courage had been stretched.
A few says rest, just a few days, then I'll go again, she promised herself. She feared that the promise would not come to be.
Pulling herself back and leaning herself up against the tree behind her, Maeve once again touched the curve that kept her child safe and warm. A fluttering sensation greeted her touch, the feeling still so shocking that she could scarcely manage the smile that wanted to get out as her heart burst in happiness.
Many nights ago, Maeve had not counted how many, she felt it for the first time, so faint that she had believed the movement to be something else. For a week she pondered over the feeling, a little worried, when suddenly realization hit her. Maeve felt immensely stupid for not knowing, people often marveled over a pregnant woman's belly, eager to feel what she felt, but quickly the feeling of foolishness faded, replaced by a calm yet giddy feeling.
Their...her child was strong and growing and before very long they would come out and greet the world, screaming and red all over. The endless, unspoken question was always there, ever since she felt her baby move: Would it be her child or Jon's?
A baby that was a constant reminder of her lover, a child that had his...his black curls and white skin, his laughter and smile, his heart...she hated herself even more for the dread that came with this lovely little picture of a strong little boy or a beautiful little girl that looked just like their father. What she feared more than anything was that they would be like him and it would hurt so much that she would be unable to hold it, or look at it without her soul hurting. She feared that she would give her child coldness instead of motherly warmth and that they would grow to hate her. She was their mother, she should not care what they looked like, they would be hers—her child, boy or girl, her likeness or Jon's, she would not care, even if it hurt her.
The fluttering slowly stopped, leaving Maeve to her dreams and hopes and fears. She did not pray anymore, save for the little prayers for Jon's safety in battle and Allyria and her children's much deserved prosperity. Her heart was not in it anymore. Her faith in the Seven had waned until her trust was less than the trust a deer held for the hungry wolf. Belief in the deities of her youth did not drive her anymore. The only thing that did was the fluttering thing inside her.
Maeve closed her eyes; her legs brought close to her and fell asleep, dreaming of a world where Jon was with her and their child had both a mother and a father.
When next she opened her eyes, the day had come and with it the rocking sound of a wagon and the protesting whines of the mule drawing it.
The terrible feeling of loss at her fading dream was pushed aside as fear and excitement washed through her and she suddenly found herself very awake. Not far down the road, a small wagon was being pulled by a tired old mule, driven by an equally tired looking old man. Her heart leapt in her chest in a mixture of fear and happiness, and knew that he had not seen her, as the brush along the roadside covered her.
He drew closer and closer, the rickety creaking letting her know how close he came. She feared discovery, but feared the loss of this rare opportunity more.
Swallowing, Maeve carefully climbed to her feet, crying out sharply as she stood for a second on her battered feet. Suddenly the squeaky cart stopped but Maeve barely noticed as her feet gave out, sending her forward to the ground on her knees. Frantically, she put her arms out to catch her, the bleeding scrapes on her palms from the rocks was a small price to pay for her child's safety.
Maeve stiffened, slowly turning her head to look back at the man in the cart. He looked so surprised it was nearly comical, his mouth hanging open, his crooked old hands still holding the reigns of the donkey and his pointed cap still settled atop his bald, pink head. He was a fat man, no chin under his mouth.
For a long moment they were silent, when she finally managed to speak, "P-please" her voice sounded hoarse to her, proof that it had not been used in quite some time.
He then urged his mule forward toward her, her voice seemed to have broken him out of whatever surprise that had gripped him. Maeve still remained on the ground, an overwhelming feeling of relief coming over her.
It seemed the sun had finally come up in these dark days, a sweet end to this period of loneliness and of loss. She could sob but refrained, not wanting to frighten the old man off. Still though, tears welled up in her eyes.
When he rolled up next to her, he asked, "Are you fine, girl?" his voice was gruff, cautious as he tried to remain aloof. A stranger on the road was odd; a young girl alone on the road was even more suspicious.
"I...I..." she coughed. "I've been traveling for a long time." She said, her voice still croaking. "My feet," she motioned, "I cannot walk anymore." The old man blinked, but did not change his steely gaze. "Please," she rasped. "Are-are you going to town or a village? Please, I beg you, take me with you, I-I will pay you anyway I can." If she were not so desperate, Maeve would have feared a lusty look to overtake his wrinkled face, but at this point it didn't matter. She would runaway when she was well again before he could even try to lift up her skirts.
He stayed silent for a moment, sizing her up and looking around the road. Finally he said, "You will ride in the back, with my daughter and granddaughter, and you will find your own food and take none of ours. Our water we will share with you but when we get to Golden Tooth, you will pay us ten golden dragons." While she was thankful he did not want her body, her heart dropped realizing what he wanted she could not give.
"I-I-I have," she paused. She had no money whatsoever, no gold nor silver nor coppers, and she was afraid that if he knew that he would refuse her a ride. It was wrong to lie, the gods hated deceit, the part of her that was still a septa whispered. Think of the baby, you can take the ride and when the end is near, promise to pay them back another way, another part of her said.
Maeve straightened up from her position on the ground, moving up so she knelt on her knees, her pregnant stomach revealed to the man. She touched her belly, thinking and weighing the options. It was not the best of offers, she had not found much food along this road and what food this man had, he would not share. It was a ride though.
"Yes, I will pay you ten pieces of gold." She swore finally. The old man nodded curtly, and gave a sharp nod toward the back of his cart.
"Don't wake them. Don't think I won't push you out myself if you do." Maeve did not reply as she carefully got to her feet, quickly shuffling toward the cart and latching her hand to the edge to keep from falling. A cry escaped her again, and tears of pain trickled down her face.
The old man hissed at her, and she opened her eyes and looked into the cart with her blurred eyes. Curled together in the back of the cart, two young girls laid together, sleeping so peacefully as if the hard wood of the cart they slept on was the plushest of beds.
The elder girl was very young, about sixteen years old, with orange hair that looked straight and tangled. She was pale, freckled, but pretty. The other girl was lying on the elder's chest, her head tucked under her mother's chin, the same thick orange hair falling down her shoulders. The little girl was about four years old, and if they hadn't looked so alike she might have took them as sisters.
When she carefully lifted herself into the back, settling as far away from the mother and her child as she could, the old fat man whipped the reigns again, making the donkey whine but walk forward nonetheless.
The girl and her daughter were surprised to see her when they awoke an hour later, but actually quite sweet. The mother's name was Tally, and her daughter's name was Dorna, a bastard from the Westerlands.
They traveled from Ashemark, fleeing from the war and to run to the safety of Golden Tooth.
When Tally saw Maeve's feet, she grew very worried and found some more healing leaf, and wrapped her feet in an old cloth she produced from a little pack she used as a pillow. Dorna, Tally's daughter, having seen Maeve's swollen belly, timidly gave the stranger her little portion of bread one night a few days after they met.
Maeve had refused, but the little child was persistent, and soon, Maeve was feasting on a slice of bread. Afterwards, as Dorna slept and Tally's father drove them on, Maeve said, "She's a sweet, sweet little girl."
Tally smiled, her chipped and crooked teeth showing without shame or embarrassment. She stroked her daughter's hair. "Aye, my little dove, she is." Tally looked back to Maeve, gesturing to her belly. "How far?"
Maeve thought a moment. "Five moons past."
"Ah, I see. Will he be a bastard when you name 'im? Or will he 'ave a name?" The bluntness of her question shocked Maeve a little, and slowly she answered.
"A...a bastard's name." She watched Tally's face, and saw a little flicker of judgement before it faded into softness.
"Someone force ya?" she asked kindly.
"No! No, no, I, um..." Maeve stuttered. She didn't want to explain to the younger girl how her situation came to be, and Tally seemed to sense that.
"Oh. Well it makes no matter. If he was married, old and ugly, or if he's dead, or if he paid you a pretty coin for a quick fuck, you get a little baby out of it." She said this with a sweet kindness, but Maeve was still offended.
How dare she think her a whore! How dare she think her a mistress to a married man! Maeve's eyes narrowed into a glare at Tally. The anger she felt was a surprising change from the shame that washed through her when the word was spat at her before.
Tally's smile faded at seeing Maeve's glare. "Don't. Call. Me. A. Whore." Maeve spat out. The back of her mind screamed at her that this was a sweet girl, who was kind enough to give her a ride and water and even help for her feet. But she had been called a whore too often, she knew that's what she was, she didn't need people to constantly remind her of it.
Tally's eyes widened, surprised by the other girls anger, and Maeve felt immediately guilty, but not enough to apologize.
That was all Maeve said, and that was the end of it.
1 month later...
Greif and anger can turn even the most honorable and good of men, driven by the basic need for comfort and assurance, damned be the consequences of afterward.
Jon was horrified with himself as he turned away from the girl behind him, both of them too stunned for words. It had all happened so quickly; one moment, they were talking, grinning at one another, the next, they were lying next to each other, breathless and spent. Maeve, he'd thought at first. I've just betrayed Maeve. The next thought was, my vows. He knew that the latter thought was truer than the first, he didn't have Maeve anymore, but his honor, or the recovering remains of it, was still there. But this still didn't make him feel any better. He felt like shit, like he deserved a good punch to the jaw.
The girl's name was Avera, she was a local girl, black haired and pretty, and surely no maiden. The way she moved was experienced, the way she showed no shyness when she unlaced her bodice.
They were still camped in Wayfarer's Rest. Robb did not want to advance too quickly yet, still fearing an ambush in the West. Why would the West Lords swear to Robb and not Renly, who was looking to claim the south?
Jon wanted strategies, plans and battles and training, he didn't want to be with this girl he barely knew, he didn't want the trouble of telling her this was a mistake and that he was sorry it happened.
It had happened though.
He had been drinking at the local tavern after helping Robb draw up plans to meet with Renly at a neutral location, when Avera, the serving girl, served him another pitcher of dark ale. He had seen her before in this tavern, always bustling about, always serving him and leaving him again with sweet words.
After the third cup of ale, Avera's flirting finally paid off as Jon invited her to sit as the tavern slowly died down.
Now Jon found himself here, in her room above the tavern, wondering the quickest way out.
"This shouldn't have happened." He said suddenly, turning toward her. She stopped straightening her clothes and looked to him, her eyes wide and shocked. "This won't happen again." Jon stated firmly.
"B-but...I-we...we both enjoyed it and, you'll be here for a while anyway. Why not?" she demanded, her long narrow face twisting into the anger and embarrassment rejection usually came with. "I loved it and you did too! I know you did! Answer me!" she screeched at Jon.
This scene was horribly familiar to Jon. He hated it and liked it at the same time. His heart twisted as he thought of Maeve.
And it was true, he had enjoyed it, his body drinking in the pleasure he had not felt in such a long time. But it was wrong; had left him unsatisfied and with a bitter taste in his mouth.
"It was wrong. I'm sorry, but this won't happen again." Jon replied evenly. Avera glared at him, tears brimming in her eyes.
"Fine." She spat in a whisper. "Leave the coins on the table and go." Jon looked at her oddly. "You fucked me and now your leaving. So if you treat me like a whore, I'm going to be paid like one." She snapped angrily.
The tense moments that followed were some of the most terrible in Jon's life. Finally, though he felt even worse for it, he dug into his pocket, fished out three golden coins and set them on the table next to the bed.
Turning and leaving, Jon set off for Robb's war council tent, hoping to get his mind off the memories of Maeve and now Avera.
didn't expect THAT now did ya!
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