Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. It means a lot. Also thanks to everyone who has favourited and alerted. Love to you all.

(This isn't a new chapter, it's the same one with an error in geography removed. I know some people love to point out mistakes, but please don't harangue me about them. Leave a comment or drop me a PM - I don't bite if the message is at least polite. But I do get annoyed by nit pickers who love to gloat over the smallest of errors).

Chapter Fifteen: A Pain in the Neck

Resentment simmered among the rapidly swelling crowds. Hostility so thick, Sandor thought he could cut with his sword. The Princess's ship hadn't even had time to leave the dock and the royal family were still dangerously exposed to the people they pissed on from their lofty perch in the Red Keep. Baking under the midday sun, hanging in the foetid air of Flea Bottom; danger seemed to blow in on the sea breeze. It was in the faces of the smallfolk who come to bid a fond farewell to the Princess, gimlet eyed with fury as they beheld their overlords. It finally spilled over as a large, soggy mass sailed through the air in a perfect, graceful arc that met its target in the face of King Joffrey.

The wet cow shit clung to his golden curls and smeared over his face, turning the rest of him red with humiliation and fury. The effect lessened somewhat as dirty, dark liquid dripped from the end of his nose. The stinking mess had only narrowly missed the Stark girl, but rather bulk and run, she smirked a smirk that she hastily hid behind her hand. She had to turn away in the end, before anyone else noticed her amusement, and she ducked out of view.

Meanwhile, Joffrey found his voice again and roared loud enough to cut through the din of the massing crowds. But it was too late and the cow shit thrower had broken a spell. The air was soon filled with rotten vegetables, mud and stones, all directed at the rapidly retreating royal party. The Queen Mother issued frantic appeals while the Imp clung to Sandor's heels as though he were a mobile shelter.

"Hound!" the King bellowed. "Hound, where are you? Defend your King!"

Without a moment's hesitation, Sandor swung through the crowds that separated him from Joffrey and formed a barrier of armour between them. In this moment, he looked every inch the child he was. All petulant posturing was gone; replaced by a girlish fear and Sandor wondered if he hadn't wet his breeches to boot. It was hardly an inspiring sight.

"Come with me, Your Grace," he said.

You reap what you sow, he inwardly added, directing the embittered thought at the boy king. Still, Sandor did as he was told and got the boy, his brother and mother back to the closed litter. Humiliated, but unhurt. Joffrey was still in a range; more so because Sandor had had to physically pick him up and push him into the safety of the litter.

"What about the Stark girl? Where is she?" It was Tyrion who spoke, but was not tall enough to see over the crowds. Instead, the Imp peered through their legs as though Sansa may have crawled away. "Someone find the Stark girl!"

Sandor was already preparing to go, but Joffrey called him back.

"What do I care where the bitch is?" he spat, cowering in the litter with shit still dripping from his hair. "No one cares, now get me out of here!"

Surprisingly, the Queen Mother backed up her brother. "He's right; we need to get Sansa back. We've already lost Arya, so get Sansa!"

Joffrey was being stubbornly petulant. "Very well. Hound, go and find the wretched Stark bitch and have her brought back to the Keep."

He really couldn't have cared less if she was savaged and raped by the maddening crowds.

Without wasting any more time, Sandor charged away from the litter and into the furious mob, finally letting his utter contempt show. With the focus of public fury now safely locked up out of their reach, the crowds had reached a new level of violence. Other, more junior, members of House Lannister were being pulled off their horses and a girl from an allied house was being raped at the bottom of the steps. Even the High Septon had been dragged down the steps and brutally murdered. His severed head was now being spiked on a rusty pike and waved over the heads of the crowd. But Sandor paid them little heed as he searched the streets for any sign of the Stark girl.

If his own white cloak made Sandor himself a target of their fury, it was his build and bearing that kept him safe. Their stones glanced off his armour without as much as a dent. Meanwhile, he was large enough and strong enough to brush them aside as though they were nothing but dried autumn leaves. Only the most angry and stupid of them dared catch his eye, to which he responded by cutting them down as he passed.

All the while, looking for her. He searched for a flash of burnished auburn, shimmering in the sun. Or a show of her turquoise silk gown among the rags of the Flea Bottom. His dark grey eyes roved over the crowds until finally he found her. She was being dragged down an alleyway by two men, with three others trailing in their wake. Her shrill screams of terror carried through the emptying streets, bringing him out in a run as he struggled to catch up.

She did not see him, nor noticed his presence closing in. Then he saw her abductors turning into a disused store room where he knew what they would do to her. He knew somebody like her, once. A long time ago, when he was just a child. Although he could not recall what that other girl looked like, now. Either way, he drew his sword with relish as he rounded the corner and entered the store house. The abductors had gotten as far as ripping the front of her dress and another was unbuckling his belt, reaching down the front of his pants. All the times Joffrey tortured the girl in full public view came rushing back to him. All those times when he could only stand back and watch. But this time was different.

Dispensing with the pleasantries, Sandor swung his sword in a wide arc towards the would-be rapist's throat. The next thing he was aware of was a spray of livid blood gushing onto the whitewashed walls. There was no time to savour the hit, so Sandor brought the sword lunging into the second attacker, cutting him from shoulder to stomach and sending his insides spilling into the dirty straw. Simultaneously, he knocked out a third man just as the other fled for fear of his life. Within seconds, it was all over and the Stark girl sank against the straw struggling to breathe.

"You're all right now, Little Bird," he told her, casually wiping the blood from his blade on a fistful of straw. "Come with me now, I'll take you safely home again."

He sheathed his weapon and extended his freed hand towards her. Sansa was still silently weeping, clutching her torn dress to hide her chest. Her blue eyes fell to his hand, regarding it with a mixture of hope and fear. Only when he reached down to pick her up did she turn to meet his gaze directly. Then, she looked at him as though he were one of the heroes in the songs and poems she loved so much. He would have smiled if he didn't think it would make his grotesque scarring a hundred times worse.

It occurred to him then that he could carry her off anywhere. No one outside dared approach him; not even Joffrey would dare challenge him. Not now that Sandor had seen through the malevolent posturing to the frighten child the King really was. He no longer feared Joffrey because it would be the girl in his arms who bore the brunt of his anger, this evening. The mark of a true coward.

"Come now, Little Bird," he said. Time to go back to your gilded cage…

It was late by the time they reached Moat Cailin. By the failing light of a setting sun, Robb could just make out the myriad of tumbling towers and decaying curtain walls. They jutted from the land like so many broken teeth, contained within the lip of the natural moat. Even that moat was now dry, offering no real protection from land invaders at all.

They always said Moat Cailin was built by the Children of the Forest as a defence against the invading First Men. And when Robb took his first proper look at the place, he was forced to concede that the fortress was showing her age.

"How do you like our new base, brother?" he had asked.

Jon stirred from where he was almost half-asleep in his saddle. "Seven hells. It's a ruin!"

However, Jon's assessment was a slight exaggeration. On closer inspection, they found three complete towers still standing. Conveniently, they all overlooked the King's Road so no one could enter the North without them being spied from their vantage point. Certainly, no invading army could pass unnoticed. Furthermore, Moat Cailin marked the point at which the North met the Neck, before giving way to the South. From east to west, marshes and bogs of the Neck stretched from coast to coast, forming a much needed natural barrier between them and the south. But it was still no excuse for having let the Moat fall into such a state of disrepair.

The following day, he and Jon explored their new surroundings while their army got settled in.

"Despite all this," said Jon, gesturing to the marshlands. "You're still going to have to rebuild the whole thing, just about. This is all that stands between us and the south."

And for all they knew, Tywin Lannister was sending a huge army north as they spoke. The Greatjon, Maege Mormont and Lord Rickard Karstark all agreed with Jon. All Robb could see was another time wasting delay on their march south. Eventually, Greatjon Umber grew tired of his prevaricating.

"Your Grace, you have thousands of men at your disposal. Set them to work rebuilding and it'll be done in a month," he pointed out. "Salvage the original stones and Manderly can have more sourced from White Harbour."

Jon looked enthused, too. "No one's in Barrow Hall since Lady Dustin died. We can take stones from there and transport them here. It's close enough by."

After a minute's consideration, he reluctantly admitted the delay would be worth it. They left the battlements of the tower they were on, determined to get the place back up and running and to leave it only once it was fully manned again.

Before the arrived at Moat Cailin, Lady Stark had ridden south for the Stormlands and Theon had set sail for the Iron Islands. Although Jon remained, Robb still felt himself growing isolated without his closest confidants. It was a strange vulnerability that made him doubly cautious when making even the most mundane of decisions. Even Jon wouldn't remain long at Moat Cailin. Their second night there was to be his last.

"You shouldn't be gone long," he said to Jon that evening. They were in the solar of the first tower, where they had manage to salvage something akin to a council room. Now that the fire was stoked, it was even warm and bordering on the comfortable. "Greywater Watch can't be that far from here."

Jon just shrugged. "You know what they say. It's near impossible to find. But apparently Lord Reed is expecting me. I must admit: I'm curious."

Robb could understand that. After all, Lord Reed was one of the few who knew Jon's full story and had done since the beginning. But, for all that, Howland Reed remained as elusive as his keep suggested.

"Have you heard from the Lannisters?" asked Jon, changing the subject.

"No, and that's what worries me. Why haven't they opened negotiations, instead issuing threats through Sansa? Is it because they think they can destroy us in one battle? They haven't even told us what's become of Sansa and Arya. Whether they're alive or dead, or anything in between." Robb had been dwelling on the fate of his sisters a lot, for all the good it did him. All he knew for sure was that he was no longer willing to wait. Deeds, not words: the old adage ran through his head once more.

"You should approach them," Jon advised, settling at the table again. He had been pacing the length of the solar, as though trying to escape prematurely. "That way, you set the agenda at least. You open the terms and conditions and the Lannister's can't say you have been unreasonable."

"But I have no intention of making compromises with these people," he countered. "But, I understand what you mean. I'll do it, so don't worry."

He would have time, once Jon left for the Neck. At a loss for what to say in the opening letter, he thought it over during the long night.

When he was a child, he imagined wars as being endless battle after battle. A constant melee of activity, remorseless advances and a frenetic progress. So far, a month into his own war, and it seemed nothing at all had happened except plans and talks. The endless waiting for something to actually happen was chipping at his resolve. He couldn't imagine Robert Baratheon going through all this.

Then, when morning came, the only thing that happened was that the time to say goodbye to Jon arrived. One more close ally gone, for the time being. Only the Gods knew when they would all be reunited and with what result.

The Fist of the First Men. An ancient ring fort defended from the terror beyond the wall by sharpened toothpicks and a couple of rotting wooden doors. Sam stood on the outside and regarded the fort sadly. Lord Commander Mormont had hauled sacks of caltrops all the way from Castle Black. But as soon as they were laid in the snow, more snow fell and covered them completely. Hidden from view, but cushioned by same substance that obscured them as the snow compacted. What use would they be? He could only wonder as he watched the fitter men than himself dig the pits around the fort.

Meanwhile, the search parties scattered in the far distance, soon obscured by the snowstorms that permanently wracked that land. But in all the distance they had travelled, they had seen neither hide nor hair of Wilding or Benjen Stark alike. Every evening, before trying to get to sleep, he wrote to Jon to keep him informed of their total lack of progress with an ever increasing spirit of glumness. "Dear Jon, I'm only writing to inform you that there's nothing to inform you of…" He should get them written out in advance and save himself the effort.

"Tarly!"

The Lord Commander's voice jolted him violently out of his reverie. It was only the thunderous look on the Old Bear's face that reminded Sam he was meant to be helping with the digging. He turned to look at the spade in his hands as though he'd never seen one before.

"Over there, Tarly!"

He was pointing towards a thicket of trees someway off the ring fort. It was too far to be any use in the fort's natural defences.

"You're supposed to be digging the latrine pit, Sam," someone else helpfully pointed out.

"Some people get all the best jobs," another chipped in, drily.

"Thanks, Ed," Sam replied, trudging off towards the trees.

Surely even he couldn't make a hash of digging a hole, so he set about his task with rapidly numbing hands. Shovelling the snow was easy enough, but cutting through the frozen earth was a nightmare. Solid as rock, the ground cracked where the spade cut through whatever it was that made up the terrain in that part of the world. Gripping the damn spade brought his hands out in blisters that soon burst and bled, causing even more pain amidst the bone aching cold that assailed him every waking moment.

He only stopped when something other than frozen mud blocked his spade's path. Latching on to any excuse to drop the shovel, he did so and knelt at the edge of his new pit. A gaping void where the earth once was, now opening onto ancient sacking cloth. Reaching down, he made a grab for it and tugged as hard as he could manage.

"Over here!" he called out to the others, still working nearby. "I need help!"

Once liberated, the sacking cloth revealed an old cloak with a vast array of obsidian daggers concealed within. Sam sat back on his heels, still kneeling in the snow, looking down at it. He remembered then the story none of his brothers were interested it.

"I told you, didn't I?" he said. "The Children of the Forest made a gift of obsidian daggers to the First Men. Annually."

"True enough," replied Ed. "But it's still fucking useless; even after all this time."

No, no it's not. Sam refused to accept that the gifts made all those years ago were simply because the blades were pretty. There had to be a reason. With that in mind, he gathered up all the blades – cloak and all – and hauled them into the ring fort.

"Look after yourself." Jon didn't even know he was saying that to Robb. The new King in the North had an army of thousands at his back. All of them currently set to work on rebuilding Moat Cailin. None shall pass once they were finished. But still, Jon was worried. He had never left the North before. He had never left Robb's side before. "I'll come back soon. Or meet up with you some place in the Riverlands."

"The Riverlands, I hope," Robb replied. "You'll be long over the river before we catch you up."

It was an unusually mild day, for which Jon was grateful. Their progress through the Neck would be quick enough. But as he made to move off, Robb remained where he was. Both of them standing on the drawbridge to the castle, Jon's retinue waiting patiently with his horse. He noticed Robb glancing over at them, his expression almost apologetic.

"There's something I need to say," he blurted out, steering Jon back towards the curtain walls. "Just one more moment before you go."

Jon's brow knitted into a frown, but allowed himself to be led away. "What's the matter?"

They were surrounded by people, but the spot they were in was shielded from most of them. Noisy from construction works all around them, Robb had to lean in close to Jon's ear to make himself heard.

"You remember when we were children and we played that game?" he asked, vaguely.

"We played lots of games, Robb," Jon pointed out.

"You know the one I mean. The one where one of us was a Lord and the other had to launch an attack. You said, once, that you were Lord of Winterfell and I got angry and said you couldn't, because you were a bastard and not fit to inherit anything," Robb explained, his words coming in a rush.

Jon remembered it well enough. At the time, it felt like being slapped in the face – especially from Robb, who had always defended him. Now, all these years later, he tried to laugh it off. "It was just a silly game, Robb."

"But it wasn't!" Robb persisted. "I didn't mean to… What I'm trying to say is-"

"You're sorry?" Jon suggested, still baffled as to why this was coming up now.

Robb nodded, managing a half-smile. "That's it."

Jon thought for a moment, back into the distant days of their childhood. "Well, all right. In that case, I'm sorry I broke your toy trebuchet and had to bury it in the Godswood. Bye, brother."

With that, he strode off grinning. Robb's voice, indignant, trailed after him.

"Wait! Wait a minute, that was you? I spent months searching for that thing!"

Jon whirled round, but carried on walking backwards to maintain the distance between them. "I knew you'd understand. So long, brother. See you soon!"

Facing forwards again, he jogged to his horse and leapt straight into the saddle. With one last look at Moat Cailin, he could only hope he wouldn't have to come back to it ever again. One final wave to Robb, he dug his spurs in the animal's flanks and walked him into a trot. Then into a gallop as they headed south along the King's Road.

To keep track of time, Jon followed the progress of the sun. Even then it was confusing for him. All the way, they kept to the King's Road. Staying on solid ground for as long as they could manage, for the horses wouldn't cope with the marshlands that made up most of the Neck. But, as the sun set they had ridden as far as they could. They veered through the trees and out of sight from the main road.

The ground was still solid, at first. Enough to bring a sigh of relief from Jon and his companions. But, before long, he could feel his Destrier's hooves sinking into the softening ground. Small streams trickled from several directions, all converging in the near distance to form a larger, single, river. If he followed the river for long enough, Jon knew they would reach the Trident and the Red Fork. But they were still miles away from the main rivers.

"We need to turn back, My Lord." One of the men stated. It was one of Glover's sons. "Get back on to the firm ground and set up camp for the night. We'll never make it through in the darkness."

Jon had to agree. Even at only this short distance from the King's Road, the atmosphere felt different. It was unlike anything he had ever seen or experienced before. Sounds came from all around them, twigs snapping in the distance and the noise carrying in the still, stagnant air. He scarce knew which way to look. Even the closeness of the trees and bushes made him feel hemmed in.

"Seconded," he concurred. "We start again at first light." But he still felt inexplicably uneasy.

It wasn't the Wildlings that attacked in the dead of night, as they were expecting. But a vast army of the undead. All the caltrops in the world couldn't have saved them from the onslaught. Only the early warning from the watchers ringed around the entire camp saved the few who managed to retreat before the massacre began.

Sam was among them, watching in terror as arrows glanced off an invading army of wights that was already dead. You're wasting your time, he wanted to shout at them. But the warning choked him. Clutching only an obsidian dagger, he let himself be dragged out of the way of the massacre by Lord Commander Mormont. But even as they retreated, the enemy hemmed them into a route and slaughtered many where they stood.

"Retreat! Retreat!" Mormont's voice barely cut through the shouts and screams. But he kept on trying anyway.

Sam did what he could, grabbing at random black shapes that passed him hoping they were his allies. Their lines were more than broken; they were cast to the winds in a frenzy of killing.

"Lord Commander!" he shouted, having lost sight of the Old Bear.

But he appeared again, signalling for them to advance south. "Just go! Go now."

But Sam's path was blocked by a wight. Just the one that had strayed from its own ranks and broken into the Fort. It seemed to tower over them all, blocking their escape.

"Fire!" Sam called out. But the fires had long extinguished. He was trembling from head to toe as they all came crashing to a halt. If they went back the way they came, they would be pushed into the path of hundreds of wights. Ahead of them was only one. Selecting the best odds, Sam prepared to die wielding the only weapon he had left at his disposal.

"We're fucked, Tarly!" someone shouted, but he couldn't put a name to the voice.

"I know!" he called back, high and tremulous.

But we might as well go down fighting. He gripped the dagger and lunged towards the solitary wight. Screwing his eyes shut, he plunged the blade deep in its skeletal ribs and waited for death to consume him. Breathing so hard, the air burned his lungs, sweat stung his eyes. All sensations that kept on existing, despite the fact he knew he should be dead. All there was a strange silence; the battle ongoing outside oddly muted.

"Seven hells, Tarly, you've done it again."

Only reluctantly did he open his eyes, noting the dead wight at his feet. Dead again, but for how long? He was about to ask, when arms grabbed him and started dragging him away at speed. One of them was the Lord Commander, he was relieved to see.

So, he thought to himself, that was why the Children gifted obsidian to the First Men. But he doubted anyone would care at that particular moment. But Mormont had already had the foresight to snatch up the cloak with the daggers inside it. At least they weren't entirely defenceless.

"March south, don't stop until you reach Craster's Keep," Mormont commanded.

"You heard boys," said Dolorous Edd. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire."

Sam had to agree, but anything was preferable to being cut down by some reanimated corpse with a thirst for blood. Or at least, so he thought.

Even when morning came, the rays of the sun scarcely troubled the marshes of the Neck. A broad canopy of tree, packed in close together, blocked most of the light. Then Jon and his host were forced to dismount their horses and start leading them by the reins through the marshes. Thick mud leaked into his riding boots, freezing cold and stinking like death. Dark Sister was sheathed at his hip, Ghost tracking them from afar was too sensible to venture to far inside.

Jon soon found himself wondering exactly what it was Lord Reed presided over. They had travelled for miles, by the middle of the day, and had not spotted a single other person. There were no houses that he could see, nor farms or even fisheries. Only endless sucking bogs that were more treacherous than they looked. One his host had lost their horse to a swamp half a mile back the way they came. The ground had simply swallowed the beast whole before their very eyes.

There were only ten in his retinue, including himself. So they formed a chain by tethering their remaining horses in a line and clinging to their bridles so they couldn't veer off the narrow path that led through the marshes. By the middle of the day, the light in the woods was poor they were forced to light their lanterns. Even then, the light diffused in the mists and only lit the way ahead a few feet at a time. Everything Jon saw was shrouded in the same swamp mists. Everything was hazy and nebulous.

On top of the strange terrain was the wildlife. Lizard-lions slipped beneath the surface of the waters with a hiss, Jon only heard them as they vanished. Like half-submerged logs, it was more that he didn't recognise them until they were out of sight. Once, Old Nan told him they ate people when their usual fare was unavailable. He cursed the old bat again as a squirm of worry snaked through his gut.

"Glover," Jon whispered to the man behind him. "I think we're being followed."

Whether by man or beast, he couldn't tell. But he swore he could hear the snapping of twigs underfoot. He kept one hand on his horse's bridle and the other on the hilt of Dark Sister.

"We haven't seen a soul," Glover whispered back. "But some of the others think they've heard them, too."

It wasn't what Jon called reassuring. The light was odd, and the shadows seemed to shift. It was like they had slipped through some strange portal the moment they left the King's Road. And the atmosphere only grew stranger the deeper they entered the marshes.

"Hand me a lantern," said Jon. "I'm going on ahead for a while."

Without protest, Glover did as asked. Taking the lantern, Jon walked ahead of the procession. But he did not hurry. Each footfall was silent and measured, barely registering against the foliage through which he trod. All he could see, however, was a deepening forest that had sprung up around the wetlands and bogs. More Lizard Lions whispering out of sight as soon as they had deceived him into thinking they were just fallen logs, floating down the rivers. All the while, was the feeling of being watched from afar. A thousand invisible eyes following him, tracking his faltering progress.

It wasn't long before he lost sight of the rest of his retinue. But sensing them close behind, he pressed onwards. But even with one hand gripping the hilt of his sword, the net had closed in on him before he'd had time to react. He dropped the lantern in alarm and could only curse as it rolled out of sight and hitting the water with a splash. It's small light soon swallowed by the dirty waters. All the while, lashed out against the net that covered him, only succeeding in falling over face first in the soft ground. The more he struggled, the more he got tangled up in the damn thing. He could no longer reach Dark Sister, never mind draw her from the scabbard.

Then, someone dropped from the upper branches of the tree that loured over him, landing lightly on her feet. Swiftly, she leapt from stone to stone in the marsh until she was by his side. A skinny girl, about the same age as him, with a shock of dark curly hair. She knelt at his side with a madden smile and rolled him onto his back again.

"Stay calm, Lord Stark," she advised. "Let your arms go limp and the net will free you."

He wanted to swear at her, but realised she was the one who had bested him. Even if it was through unfair means.

"Who are you?" he demanded, still too worked up to follow her advice. "How do you know my name?"

The girl sighed and forced his arms to his side. "I said, stay still."

Not wanting to give her any further reason to make a fool of him, he did as asked. Seconds later, the net seemed to slip free from his limbs and he watched as she reeled it back in. Once it was safe and back in the pocket of her cloak, Jon slowly calmed himself. All the same, he kept one beady eye on the place where she kept that lethal net of hers.

"I asked who you are," he said, affronted still.

She smiled as she got to her feet and extended a hand. "I'm Meera Reed, Lord Stark. We've been expecting you."

"Is that how you greet all your guests?" he retorted, bypassing the offered hand and picking himself up. He was covered in wet, sticky mud. It was even sucking up into his nostrils every time he breathed in. "In fact, don't answer that. I really am honoured to make your acquaintance, Lady Reed."

But if she was affronted by his irritation, Meera did not show it. She was still smiling. "That's all right. We've been tracking you since you left the King's Road. I like your wolf, by the way. Is that Ghost?"

Before he could answer, the remainder of his retinue ambled into sight, all of them being shepherded by Crannogmen. Ambush – the Neck's favourite form of defence. Jon sighed deeply.

"You must have known who we were, so why have you ambushed us?" he asked.

Again, Meera was unfazed. "You people rarely take us Crannogmen seriously. If you want us to fight for you, then you must know what we're capable of. Now, do you want to meet my father or not?"

The rest of his retinue were released without further ado. All of them, heavily armed and armoured, looked utterly abashed at being bested by people half their size and weight. Jon forced himself to be polite. "Please, Lady Reed, lead the way," he suggested.

Thanks again for reading. Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.