I'm BA-ACK! Hello, so here's chapter 25 for you ;D

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Chapter 25 Say Something

The cold had come in the wake of the battle, icy winds and darkened clouds stretched overhead with breath freezing in the air into white puffs of smoke. In this war it was easy to forget that winter was coming for them and that, for their northern homes, it had already come with ice and snow.

It as though the gods themselves were displeased with the turn of events—from Lord Eddard Stark's death to now, with all the horrors in between. Perhaps it was the folly of the western lord's betrayal why they now feared the inconvenience of sleet or snow, or mayhaps the men who'd burned the sept into charred black stone and melted gold were to blame. But mostly, the northern howlers talked of how the gods were angry that Robb Stark had been injured in the fray.

In the castle at the base of a mountain—half mountain, rough and hard and untamed, half manmade fortress with smooth marble walls and high, square towers—Robb Stark lay in the unseated lord's bed, his wound being tended to by every available healer and maester his men could fetch. It was to the end of the battle that an arrow had found its mark between the vulnerable creases of his armour. His great wolf had ripped the man who'd shot his master apart, tearing and clawing in a wild rage, until every limb was scattered to pieces.

Their king was wounded, the son of their murdered lord—their hope of independence threatened. Grey Wind refused to leave Robb's defenceless body, but when the healers tried to work, the animal reacted furiously, growling, and had bitten one of the healers' arms off already. The bloodied appendage and the shrieking man it belonged to had been taken from the room.

The lords had silently agreed then, that the animal had no place inside the sickroom, terrifying the already quivering healers and maesters from doing a proper job. Grey Wind, restrained by sticks and chains, had been pulled from the chamber as soon as enough men were found, howling and tearing at his captors. Three men had been mauled taking the beast away, and none of the healers inside the chamber had been allowed to tend to them.

The Young Wolf slept, deep and undisturbed by the commotion he'd inadvertently caused—milk of the poppy fogging his dreams and deafening his ears. There was no pain for him, as horrible and ugly a wound it was. And it was serious, the arrow embedded so deep, one of the maester swore he felt bone scrape as he removed it. The king's generals had rallied around him, and the chamber was filled to the brim with loud, dirty men, and big bruiting bodies incapable of gentleness or tact, useless in this delicate situation.

They fought like animals, fear and anger and doubt making their tongues loose and their words angry. At the start, shouts had been directed at healers, but as they jumped and slipped at every loud threat of maiming from one of the lords, the burly men began to shout at each other, the fear of their cause dying out fuelling their barbs.

"The king will die!" one high lord yelled. He was at once drowned out by affronted cries.

"Treason!" one voice shouted in reply.

"Treason to speak the truth!?" a differed voice screeched.

"His Grace is strong." One healer said gently, his voice lost in the rising brawl.

"Who will continue the campaign!?"

"Damn you, man! Our king has a flesh wound!" one of the higher lords replied. Just as quickly as accusations of treason and treachery had started, shouts of who should be the Young Wolf's heir arose.

They said he was immortal, that the King in the North was the god's champion, and would never allow him to die, and until today, his generals had believed him untouchable. The Young Wolf was without an heir, his marriage-bed promised to one of the Frey daughters he would meet, wed and bed once the war was over. All through the war, the northern king had been so focused on battle that nary had a lovely wench warmed his bed. And so, the northern howlers now feared their king's demise without a legitimate heir to take up crown and sword when he was gone.

The younger Stark boys were Robb's official heirs until such a time, but Bran Stark was a cripple and Rickon was a babe. Neither was suitable to be leading an army into battle. Still, there were shouts for Bran Stark to continue his brother's work, for he was still a wolf, with Stark blood. Other names arose in the chaos. Lord Bolton and Lord Umber's names were the most common. But none of these names inspired as much loyalty, or as much hope as Robb's name had. Before any heir of his, they would follow King Robb Stark into the midst of battle.

"Vultures!" someone cried in rage, hand on the pommel of his sword. "Our king still lives!" his voice came through the wash of voices like a sewing needle—felt, but not too noticeable to make them hush.

One healer, a woman with a scarf pulling her hair back and out of her face, gripped her little sack of healing herbs tightly around her fist. She'd had quite enough of these big brutes invading the chamber, screaming things left and right, hindering their efforts to heal the king they claimed to serve.

In her time learning to be a healer, she'd never tended a king before. Of course, then there had only been one and he was all the way down in King's Landing. Kings were everywhere now, and she'd never thought a girl like her would ever serve under a king without the name Baratheon. She'd been the second daughter of a low lord, and had begun learning under the steady eye of her family's maester. Just a year ago she had been stitching up wounds obtained by kitchen and butcher knives. Now she tried to soothe burns, stop endless bleeding, and amputate rotted limbs from living men.

She was angry, that these men could and were currently, making such a precarious situation all the worse. But she was silent. She could not speak out unless she wanted her tongue ripped out for insolence. There were rumours over how stern this king and his men could be. The king had had his own brother thrashed barely a year ago for wrongdoing. She was afraid of these men, but not of what they would do to her. She feared what they would do to each other if this went on.

But there was one lord who knew this chamber would be filled with more severed limbs should the arguing go on any longer.

Lord Umber growled low in his throat. He believed himself the most loyal of all the generals—he'd lost his fingers to his king's wolf when he first spoke with him, had council with him, he'd bled for him many times in battle, and had shared meat and mead with him countless times. After his old gods, Robb Stark commanded the most loyalty than anything else in this world. If his king died, the whole campaign died, and they would scatter to their holdfasts, waiting for the day the lions recuperated and hunted them down for treachery.

"Shaddup!" he bellowed into the room, his roar quieting the commotion it the room to a murmur. "Out! All of you!" some of the lower lords eyed the chamber door warily, while the elder lords eyed him defiantly. He fought with these men, knew them, bled in the mud with them. But they gave up too easily. They would argue amongst themselves, while their king bled. This latest betrayal, which had resulted in an unexpected battle in Golden Tooth, had made them all wary. Punishment could be dealt out later, now they needed calm.

Even he, arguably the boldest lord in all the north, knew this.

"His Grace needs his men," Lord Bolton stated, his voice as smooth and calm as ever.

"My lords," a quiet, timid voice came from the side of the bed. Sharp eyes turned to the source, finding a small woman, knelt down beside the bed, her hair pulled back by a scarf, a peek of brown hair showing under it. She looked up at the burly lords as the other healers around her worked. When she met Lord Umber's eyes, she quickly moved them to their feet. "Forgive me, but we need space to work. To guarantee His Grace's recovery, we must...we must have quiet."

Her words gave the men pause and halted their growing hostility in the mean time. "And do the rest of you agree?" Lord Glover addressed the other healers.

After a moment's hesitation, they nodded and one old maester squeaked "Yes, my-my lord!"

The sickroom was silent for an endless moment, the lords exchanging similar looks of wariness and thought, the healers trying to shakily resume their work and make themselves as small as possible. Finally, a few lords collected themselves and nodded in affirmation to Lord Umber. In response, the lesser lords nodded too.

"Keep two guards for every healer that enters this chamber. Anyone that attempts to murder our king will be strung up and flayed for treason." Lord Bolton said his voice cold and biting as ice. The healer who's spoken out shivered, biting her lip.

"Agreed then?" Lord Umber asked the room. Once more, the lords nodded, none of them looking particularly pleased in being ordered out like children. Still, for their king's sake, they could take their quarrel outside.

The lords began to leave, much to the relief of the healers, but Lord Umber remained. He remained until twenty-eight guards filled the room, two for every healer and maester left to the king. He watched the woman with the scarf, brows furrowed as he observed her speak gently to another healer. How had she had the bravery to speak up to them? Was she a fool, or was she simply too bold? The Greatjon trusted no one, and now this woman would be added to that long list.

"You!" he pointed at her, her dark eyes wide as she stared at him. "You best make sure he lives, woman. Any tricks, they'll be no mercy for you." He warned.

"I don't specialize in tricks, my lord." She replied, her eyes set on the floor once again. "Healing is my job and what I am good at." Maybe, she thought, if you were any good at yours, the king would not lie abed with extra holes in him.

"Look at me." She did, but reluctantly. His cold eyes pinned her where she was, and a rush of fresh fear slid down her back. "What's your name?" he growled.

"Jeyne, my lord." And just Jeyne. He'd murder me here if he knew my last name. Thankfully, he didn't ask.

"The king dies, and yours is the first head I'm coming for." He threatened.

Jeyne nodded fearfully.

As Maeve blinked the last lingering touches of sleep from her eyes, Edrick snorted and whimpered, tiny little mewling sounds that made her heart ache. The events of the night before came to her suddenly in vivid succession—the pain, Tally's hands gentle on her back...the horrors of birth, and two wrinkled septas delivering her son and setting him into her arms. She remembered the unrivalled fear of being butchered, the feeling of being trapped with only a pathetic clay shard as protection. And then suddenly she'd had Ghost there before her, her friend and savior on the road, sniffing at her son and licking his tiny foot.

She remembered Jon suddenly being there, and wondering if she'd gone mad at last. Looking at him now, her face pulled into a stern expression, Maeve felt quite sane, if not a little weak and tired. She pulled her baby up in her arms, hushing him gently. Unknowingly, she inspired memories in Jon, ones made so long ago it felt like another life.

"You're still slow to wake." Jon said, mostly to himself, half listening to the rallying cries of his brothers in arms in the distance. Maeve heard him, and sent him a quick look as she settled back against the table leg behind her, wincing ever so slightly. The birthing bed had left her sore and bloody—the price of a healthy child, she thought as she looked down at the baby in her arms. Even now she could feel the wetness of blood between her legs. She wanted to sleep more, but she couldn't.

But she wouldn't complain. She was alive, and last night she'd been afraid she and her son wouldn't live to see the sun. They were alive. Joy danced in her heart, beautiful and lifting. But beneath this cloud of unimaginable relief, there was a part of her that feared Jon leaving once again. She was afraid that by seeing her son—their son—he would leave them.

She was ashamed at this—she'd survived when he left her before, she'd survived all on her own, and had a healthy baby boy to show for it. She could survive again, somehow. She could do it and had done it. But...she didn't want to be alone again. She didn't want to be lonely; she was tired of simply surviving, day to day, all her time consumed with things that gave her no real joy. She wanted to live, to be happy and taste joy on her tongue. She wanted to be happy, and Jon had made her happy once.

"I've gotten better at it in the last few months." She murmured back, sleep still in her voice. Jon bit his tongue. He feared to know what had forced her to adapt such a feature. He looked down at the baby she held, and quickly looked back up at her. Her hair was even more of a mess than when she'd gone to sleep, Jon noted. It would almost be funny if she was not in a blood stained dress.

He glowered at the stains—still red as the blood had not dried completely yet. He would find her a maester soon, and would not rest until he found one. He didn't care if he had to pull one off some dying soldier to do it. Maeve had to stay healthy, stay strong. The boy in her arms needed her above all else.

"Have you slept at all?" she asked gently. In her arms, her son grasped at her finger and squeezed tight. She pulled her eyes from his sweet little face, and back up to his father's. Quickly, Jon looked away from her and back out the window, not wanting to be caught staring.

Mae eyed him. He didn't look at her, and her belly tightened.

"A mite." He replied simply. Maeve frowned thoughtfully.

"What's happening out there?" she asked after a moment.

"It's quiet. Soldiers have configured farther away." Again, he was civil, feeling detached from his tone. This bothered her—no it angered her actually. Surely two people who knew each other so intimately would be better at speaking to each other? Or did they no know each other anymore? The thought made her sad, but not surprised. He was probably ashamed to look at her, ugly, and bloody as she was.

"Good. More soldiers bring more trouble." She replied half-heartedly.

"Yes." He agreed, returning his eyes to hers, his eyes guarded while hers were open and heavy. "I will find you a healer—"

"And do you plan to come back?" she asked. She pulled Edrick closer, earning a little sleepy coo from the babe.

He didn't hesitate. "Yes." Her eyes remained unbelieving. "I will leave once Arya wakes. She will stay with you."

For a moment, Maeve took no notice of the name. Jon would leave when the girl woke up, and she feared he wouldn't return—either by choice or by some soldier, still taken with bloodlust. But for some reason, the word Arya remained in her head, repeating AryaAryaAryaArya, some far off memory coming to life at the sound of that name.

And suddenly it occurred to her—Jon's familiarity with the girl, the way she stayed close to him and her name. He'd talked of her often back at camp with both pride and grief in his voice, as the constant knowledge she was lost, weighed on him. Maeve had been almost jealous of the bond between them, having never known something like that in the life she remembered. The brothers and sisters she'd gained in the sept had been momentary, fleeting. Not many children brought into the sept who intended to become either septa or septon, lasted very long under their stringent rule. Many children would leave, believing a life as a beggar was better, and in some ways, it must have been.

"Arya...your sister?" she asked quietly. She feared this girl was not his sister, and that saying the name may bring him pain or make her look the fool.

His brows rose and for a moment he was quiet. When he did speak, it was with a quiet sort of surprise in his voice, a welcome change from the detached answers he offered. "You remembered her?" he hadn't thought she'd remembered their conversations from so long ago.

"Yes." She remembered everything he'd said. "I thought she was a hostage." she replied, relieved.

"Not anymore. I just...found her." He looked to the sleeping girl beside him, a grin pulling his lips up. She wondered if he could ever smile at her again.

"I'm happy for you, truly, I am." She meant it—he loved his sister, and had always hoped he would see her again someday. She could see it when he spoke of her, the love that was left silent, which fell down into the marrow of his bones. He had never said as much, but when he did speak of her, his demeanour changed, and then he was silent, pensive and looking like he'd swallowed a bee. "What will you do now?"

He shrugged. "Return her to her mother and search for Sansa next." So simple, so straight forward.

She let out a huff. "Surely you're happy to see her?"

He was quiet. No words could explain what he felt just then.

For a long while, it was silent, Edrick once more falling asleep nestled safely in her arms. She stared down at his sweet little face, marveling once more at how something so good had come from a situation so unseemly.

And, it seemed, he'd come into the world and was suddenly forced into a situation that was just as difficult. He was a baby, an innocent little creature, and didn't deserve it. Without thinking, she opened her mouth, feelings of hurt and grief and a sad realization flowing through her, needing to be put to words before it was too late, and she was never again able to articulate them.

"We don't know how to talk to each other anymore, do we? It's been too long and the last we saw each other was under the heavy stares of revulsion." The man across from her sighed, his head tilting forward to look at his hands clenched together, elbows resting across his drawn up knees.

No, he thought. The last time I saw you was on the road, when you were heavy and I brought you a rabbit for dinner. When I was a wolf. Those had been dreams, he had thought, dreams cropped up from longing for a woman he'd never again see. But she'd been pregnant in those dreams, and as she held a newborn infant right before him, he was doubtful that those had been more than dreams of longing.

He wanted to tell her how badly he'd missed her, how he'd wanted to go after her, but that by the time he'd woken from a heavy poppy milk stupor, she'd been gone for days. He wanted to tell her that he still loved her, that he still wanted her. But he did not know if she felt the same, did not know if she'd come to hate him in her time away from him. He wanted to tell her he was sorry for, ever touching her, ever loving her, ever setting eyes on her, because if he hadn't they would not have been judged guilty and punished.

But he could not find the heart to say these things, could not find a way to word it in a way that suited what he felt. There would be time later, he thought to himself. He'd nearly died the night before, countless times actually, and he'd survived to find both his sister, and his former lover in under an hour.

"I nearly died last night." He finally managed, still looking at his hands. "A soldier, he had me on my back and raised his hammer up high." His heart beat faster at the memory. "I thought it was the end. I thought I'd never see you again. I thought I'd never tell my brother that I didn't blame him—not really—for sending you away. I thought I'd die...without seeing my sisters again, without Robb knowing I didn't hate him. I was going to die alone, in the middle of a fray." His hands began to shake from being squeezed together so tightly, and his throat felt tight. He didn't even know why he said these things, he could have gone on being silent, let her say what she would, think what she would. But somehow, the words kept flowing as the memories battered around in his head.

True, he had faced death many times before, but he'd never looked it in the face.

"But then Ghost..." he sighed. "Then Ghost knocked him off, ripped out his throat. How am I to handle this? Is this what you wanted to hear? You want to hear this?" he looked back up at her, fearing the look in her eye. But what he saw could not compare to any imagining of his. Her eyes were watery, her skin paler and her lips drawn into a tight line. He felt the crease between his brows soften.

He didn't think he'd ever told her about the battles he'd fought in before, and imagined the knowledge shook her as much as it did him. The last day he saw her in the camp, she'd looked horrified at the wound to his side.

He remembered how he'd seen her last night, after Arya forced his back at hearing the cries of a baby. She'd looked so frightened, such naked and terrible emotion was the only thing in her face. She'd expected to die as well, he realized painfully. By some random luck, or from some divine mercy, they'd found each other and managed to live to see another day. He thanked whatever gods there were for that.

Maeve looked up to the rafters to drive away the tears and when she spoke, her voice trembling. "Was that the closest you've ever come?"

"The closest I've ever known I've come." He replied in a mumble.

"Those wolves are a blessing," she said softly, remembering how Ghost had saved her life, more than once while she was on the road. She almost said as much, but she didn't want to talk about the details of that terrible, awful night where she'd first seen the wolf again. Not to Jon. She never wanted him to know, but somehow she knew, eventually, the truth would come out. The mark on her neck was not easily concealed and if he planned on remaining with her, he would ask.

"Maeve?" Jon rumbled a moment later. Her grey eyes glanced up at him. "Is he mine?" and there it was, the simplest and most stabbing question he had to ask. He looked uncertain, almost as if he feared of her answer.

Maeve regarded him for a long moment, her eyes swirling with unreadable emotion, all the while unaware that every silent second which passed, doubled Jon's agony. She wanted to scream, to yell at him for even asking that. But she couldn't. Beyond all the hurt over such a question, she knew it had to be posed. A lot could happen and had happened while they'd been apart, but he didn't know what.

"He is every bit yours as he is mine. From the hair on his head, to the tiny toes on his feet." she replied. The soft sincerity in her voice tightened his heart, and a new kind of pain swelled inside him. It was a sweet kind of agony—filled with relief and horror, love and anger, fear and hope. It was the good that made the bad bearable. He could hardly manage a disbelieving smile that suddenly quirked up his lips, his eyes falling to the babe Maeve held.

He had expected it, hoped for it and yet it still struck him silent. It seemed laughable to say he'd half expected her answer.

When he vowed to the Night's Watch, he'd given up whatever future there was of him becoming a father, and gladly too. What could he offer a child, or its mother? What had they to inherit from him when he died? The answer was always a sad one, and he'd resolved years ago to never allow a child to live the life he had. A life of being shunned, reminded that you were the result of a night of disgrace, and a life of shame. But now, it seemed, another child would.

Bastard, he thought bitterly. Edrick was no bastard. He had a father, and would only be a bastard by name. He would marry Maeve and save her and their son from the shame. He would keep them safe, provide for them so they never knew a hungry day. He would allow them some time to readjust and tend to other matters first.

He stared at the babe, the confirmation swirling in his head and sunk deep into his bones. The baby—Edrick as Maeve had called him—would not live a life without knowing who its father was. He was his father. Eddard Stark had not abandoned him when he learned he'd fathered a child not of his wife. Instead, Jon had grown up and learned to be a man by the best one he'd known. He would be present in Edrick's life, he resolved, as he hadn't been at the start.

With biting regret, he remembered once more that she'd spent months without him, pregnant and vulnerable. He didn't know anything really, about her life in their time apart, all the little facts or moments he could have shared with her as her belly swelled were lost on him. He hadn't the chance to keep her safe, or well fed or warm. She'd done all that alone. The months on the road had taken a toll on her, he knew as much. When he looked through his wolf's eyes, he'd seen how skinny she was, even though her stomach swelled far out. He'd seen how tired she was. And when she'd been pinned under that Lannister prick, he'd seen how vulnerable she was.

He'd even missed their child's birth, by mere moments it seemed, but still, it was an ordeal she'd had to suffer alone.

Never again, he resolved. Never.

Maeve had almost expected Jon to ask to hold the baby. She'd imagined a sweet kind of look on his face, one so obvious, she would cry and go to his side and everything would be as it was. But Jon was quiet, staring at their son with a far off look.

"He's a baby. He's nothing to be shamed over." She snapped suddenly. She would not have Jon thinking awful things about their little boy. She'd rather he leave her than look at her or Edrick like that. She looked down and adjusted the fabric Edrick was bundled in, almost as if trying to hide him from scorning eyes.

Jon's eyes snapped up at her, surprise colouring his features at her words. Had she thought him ashamed? He was, since he hadn't been there when she and their son had needed him. But ashamed of Edrick? No, though part of him felt the inkling that he should. But he wouldn't be ashamed by his own son, even though the circumstances surrounding his birth were shameful. Although Jon knew he'd caused his father shame, Lord Eddard had never once acted ashamed of Jon.

He would be the same for his son, and hope that he grew into a good, honourable man, surpassing his mother and father's shattered honour.

"No he's not." He agreed. She looked at him with a frown, trying to read his face. "He's shocking, but not shameful."

Her face softened, her eyes losing their hostility but not their new shine from the tears gathering. Her lips were tight and pale. She looked down at the boy who still slept soundly as though the entire world were aright. "He is rather shocking." She agreed softly.

In the pale light of the morning, they said no more. There was little left that could be said, all the important things already spoken. Still, Maeve ached deeply inside her, pain left over from the birth and blood kept on between her legs. She knew the risks, knew childbed fever could set in if she were not seen by a maester soon. But Jon would leave in search of one as soon as his sister awoke, and so she saw no harm in keeping silent company with him a little while longer.

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